


A Great Service and a Bitter Grief

by Luzula



Series: If Fate Should Reverse Our Positions [2]
Category: The Jacobite Trilogy - D. K. Broster
Genre: Alternate History, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe of an Alternate Universe, Character Death Fix, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Happy Ending, M/M, Plotty, Politics, Romance, War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-14
Updated: 2020-10-14
Packaged: 2021-03-07 20:20:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 33,186
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26993560
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Luzula/pseuds/Luzula
Summary: An alternate happy ending to "If Fate Should Reverse Our Positions", with no major character death.
Relationships: Ewen Cameron/Keith Windham
Series: If Fate Should Reverse Our Positions [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1971424
Comments: 20
Kudos: 10





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is an alternate ending to [If Fate Should Reverse Our Positions](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25670953), without the major character death in the ending. It replaces Part V and the epilogue, that is, AO3 chapters 6 and 7. There's a thousand words or so in the beginning which are identical to the beginning of Part V, before it branches off, and also some more identical bits later on. It seemed necessary in order to make it easy for the reader to know where to switch between the stories, and also to make this a more complete story in itself. 
> 
> I am, as ever, very much oblig'd to my three beta readers: Garonne, Regshoe and Hyarrowen. ♥ Thanks also go to Solo for some help with Scots and with Gaelic. 
> 
> In a way, this story was more difficult to write, since I had to research/imagine the political situation after a Jacobite victory—a much harder task than writing an alternate course for the war! I'm really not sure how well I succeeded. 
> 
> If you come to this fic a while after reading the first one, here is a summary of what has just happened: in the larger events, the Jacobites have won two battles north of London, the first one when they outmanoeuvred Cumberland's and Wade's armies to get there before them, and the second when Cumberland arrived. The Jacobite army is now heading north, following Cumberland's retreating army, which is aiming to meet up with Wade. Ewen and Keith last met in the gaol in Luton, where Keith had been imprisoned by his own side after mistakenly being taken for a spy. Ewen (accompanied by Lachlan) came north to get him out, because it had partly been his fault that it had happened. Ewen and Lachlan got separated on their way back, when Ewen was captured by Hanoverian scouts, but later escaped to join the Jacobite army again. 
> 
> (Oh wow, this is certainly plotty...)

Dusk fell early on that December evening, so close to the winter solstice. It fell on stubbled fields where the snow had begun to melt again, for there was a thaw, and on the army of the Duke of Cumberland, which kept marching along the Great North Road despite the darkness. The Jacobites were not far behind. 

Ordinarily, armies left the field in winter, when there was not sufficient pasturage for the large number of horses that accompanied a body of troops the size of those on the continent, and war was suspended until the spring. This winter campaign was felt to be unnatural, and it was hard on everyone, but most of all on the common soldiers: they suffered from inadequate, worn-out shoes, and from the cold, when they could not get billets inside, but had to sleep in tents. 

This thaw was not an unmixed blessing, for though it was warmer, it was also wetter. And for the muskets, too, damp was most detrimental. 

Though he had come back to the army in triumph, Keith Windham's mood was soon tempered by that of the soldiers marching wearily about him, and he hoped that they would soon be reinforced by General Wade's army, coming from the north, and meet the Jacobites in a final and decisive battle. For surely that must be Cumberland's aim—the soldiers would not be able to take much further marching, without some rest. 

They reached Huntingdon, where they finally halted. Since it was a larger town, most of the men would be able to sleep under a roof, which was a mercy. 

Keith rather dreaded his report to Cumberland, but in the event, he was not very closely questioned, for the Commander-in-Chief seemed preoccupied, and appeared to consider Keith exonerated by the sequence of events. But he was not to remain long as commander of a regiment, however inferior, for he was assigned back to the Royal Scots, or rather, to the remnants of that once proud regiment. 

'More than half of the Royals were taken prisoner at the first battle for London, and God only knows how many of those have turned,' said St Clair. 'We have had further desertion since—only last night, Captain Campbell absconded with fifty men, curse the man. We are short on officers, for many were captured in the first battle, and I am giving you a mixed company: the rest of Captain Campbell's men, and some of your old ones, who escaped the battle.' 

'Yes, sir,' said Keith. Notwithstanding his ambition of being promoted, he found it almost a relief to be back as a captain, responsible only for a company of men. And he set out to find those men and speak to his sergeants and corporals, finding to his joy that Lamb, that most competent and reliable sergeant, was among them. 

But Keith relaxed too early. Cumberland may have let go of his suspicions, but there was another Hanoverian commander who had not forgotten the events in Luton, and in London, too. 

As he was on his way back from where his men were billeted, he heard a voice behind him. 'Captain Windham!' 

He turned, with a sinking feeling. Keith could never look upon Lieutenant-General Hawley without remembering that he had very nearly had Ewen shot. But he tried to keep his face and voice non-committal. 'Yes, sir?' 

'You are back, I find.' Hawley's gaze was sharp. 'And Cumberland has accepted your explanations.' 

'Yes, sir.' 

Hawley's eyes narrowed. 'For my part, I should like some further demonstration of your loyalty—I remember too well your actions on behalf of that rebel in London.' 

'You need not fear for my loyalty, sir.' 

'Good!' said Hawley briskly. 'Then you'll not object to shooting a rebel for me now?' 

Keith's mind threw up a horrible vision: that Ewen had yet again been captured, and that he would be asked to shoot him. His heart pounded in fear—surely Ewen was safe? 

He tried to clear his head, and said carefully, 'Sir, I do not object to punishments which are meted out after due legal process, which conform to the law and to the international code of war.' 

'How conscientious of you. Well, you should have no objection to shooting this one, then: he is a deserter, who has been caught sneaking away, possibly to join the rebels. He was sentenced to death by the regimental court martial.' 

'I do not object, sir,' said Keith curtly, for what else could he say? In truth he had no wish to be involved in Hawley's punishments, but he was duty-bound to obey any lawful command from his superiors, at least if they were not dishonourable. And he was exceedingly relieved that the prisoner was not Ewen. 

'Come along, then.' 

They were near the market square of the town, which was now occupied by Hawley's dragoons and by soldiers of several other regiments, and the general strode with long steps to where a man stood, guarded by two of the dragoons. In the darkness, the lanterns carried by the soldiers lit a prisoner guarded by two men. 

Keith hung back, asking Hawley's aide-de-camp in a low voice, 'Was the verdict of the court-martial unanimous, sir?' 

'Yes, sir, it was,' said the aide-de-camp, and Keith felt a little easier in his mind—this was not a lawless stunt, as in London, then. 

One might be excused, when reading the Articles of War, or, for that matter, the penal code of England, for thinking that men were executed in large numbers every day. This was not the case, for though this ultimate punishment was, on paper, to be meted out for countless crimes, in practice, the punishment was often more lenient, and of those sentenced to die, many were reprieved. 

Keith was not a flogging captain, and indeed, held such officers in some measure of contempt, as unable to effect discipline through other means. He had never personally executed a deserter before, though he had seen it done, and had sat in court-martials that had reached that verdict. He could see the cold logic of it in this case: in their desperate circumstances, the temptation to desert must be strong, for those inclined to it, and this execution was meant as an example and a deterrent to that most ruinous tendency to abandon one's sworn duty. 

Very well, then, he would do it. 

Under Hawley's watching eyes, and the surrounding soldiers', Keith strode up to the deserter. He was a powerful man, not tall, but broad and strong, and his eyes, under his red hair, met Keith's with a sullen defiance. There was a bruise on his cheek, presumably from his capture. 

'What is your name, sir?' asked Keith. 

'Thomas Moodie, frae Ayrshire,' he said, in broad Scots. 

'Have you any last request?' said Keith. 

The deserter hesitated, then said, 'Gin A hud pen and peper, A wald write tae ma mither.'

Keith took out his pocket-book, and, tearing out a page from it, he handed it to the prisoner, along with a pencil. Hawley gave a derisive snort, and Keith, turning to him, said, 'You have given me this task, sir; let me then perform it as I see fit.'

He waited until the deserter had finished writing, and folded the paper, then said, 'If you write the directions on it, I'll see that it reaches her.' 

'Thank you,' the man muttered. 

'Do you wish me to send for the chaplain?' Keith said. 

The man's jaw set. 'I dinnae hold wi thon creed.' 

'Very well,' Keith said. The chaplain was of course an Anglican priest, and Keith supposed that the deserter might be a Presbyterian, or a Dissenter of some sort. 

The firing squad were standing by, and Keith ordered them to make ready, and the man to stand against the stone wall of the house. As he stood there, his jaw clenched and his chin rose in a gesture of defiance that, in a flash of memory, pierced Keith's heart with the image of Ewen, standing before the firing squad in London. Though, in truth, he was not at all like Ewen, save for the colour of his hair, and the gesture was not very like, either. 

Keith clenched his own jaw, but tried to let his face remain impassive. It must be done. 

As the man closed his eyes and moved his lips, perhaps in prayer, Keith gave the order, and watched as it was executed. 

After he had ordered the execution, he turned to Hawley, and said, his voice expressionless, 'Have you further orders for me, sir?' 

'No, Captain,' said Hawley. At that moment Keith hated him, for he could see that the man had enjoyed the scene he had just witnessed, and that this was most likely the reason he had done it, rather than any wish to reassure himself that Keith was not a spy. 

'You seem to think, Captain,' continued Hawley, 'that enemies can be defeated, or discipline be maintained, by means of lenity.' 

Keith remained at attention, for the general had not yet given him leave to go, but he heartily wished he might be spared his philosophising. 

'Take the matter of the officers captured at the Corryarrick, whom I gather that you think, out of some misplaced sense of honour that is due to the rebels, should have been left to moulder in Perth. But the King himself ordered them to return to their duty—do you think yourself too good to follow the King's orders, then?' 

Keith's first reaction on hearing this was a sort of instinctive denial. King George himself had—? 

But he must answer Hawley's question. 'I follow the King's orders, sir,' said Keith in a wooden tone. 'May I be excused? I have other duties, sir.' 

'Yes, go to your duties, Captain Windham.' Hawley waved him off. 

Was it true, that King George had actively ordered such a thing? It should perhaps not have changed anything, for the King was ultimately responsible also for General Handasyde's action, if he had not acted to counter it, when he had learnt of it, but… 

No, he must find out more of this matter. Keith went in search of St Clair, for he was sure that his colonel would tell him the truth. 

He found him in one of the inns of the town, consulting with the lieutenant-colonel of the regiment, who handled much of the regiment's business. Keith waited until the other man strode off, and approached St Clair. 

'I am sorry to take up your time with such a thing,' began Keith, 'but I am troubled by a matter which I think you'll be able to shed light on. You must know of the matter of the captured officers in Perth who were forced to break their parole. Was that ordered by the King directly?' 

St Clair sighed. 'You choose a fine time for your scruples, Captain—I trust you know that we have a battle tomorrow? But I'll answer your question: Handasyde did it on his own initiative, but when many of the officers still would not take up the sword again, he appealed to the King, who sent an order that they should return to their duties. Even so, some did not do so. Have I answered your question, Captain?' 

Keith would dearly have liked to know St Clair's own opinion of these matters, for he respected the man's judgement. But St Clair's expression told him that he would hear no more of it now, and indeed, another officer was hovering round the door of the room, waiting for his chance to speak to him. 

'Yes, sir, and I thank you,' said Keith, and bowed. 

Keith had secured a billet that night in an inn, but beds were in short supply, so he slept on a mattress on the floor, in a room crammed full of other officers. But tired as he was, he could not sleep, for the events of the evening had disturbed him in several ways. 

The revelation of the King's order had quite taken up his mind, but when he closed his eyes, he found that it was the face of the man he had executed that haunted him. It was the first time he had killed a man in cold blood, rather than in the heat of battle, and it did no good to tell himself that the man would have died regardless, for he had been the one to give the order. As a military officer, ordering the execution of a deserter was a part of his duties, and he wondered if he would have been as disturbed by it, before he had met Ewen. Perhaps not. Perhaps he had grown soft, and inclined to sympathise with rebels. 

But no—it could surely be no fault to feel compassion, and if his feelings for Ewen had strengthened that emotion in him, he could not regret that! 

Keith turned over in his bed, not for the first time, and glared in the dark at the man over by the window, who was snoring, and not quietly. But it was not the noise which was keeping him awake, and he knew it. 

Keith himself had committed capital crimes, in his relations with men, and, though convictions for sodomy were not common, given the difficulty of obtaining evidence, he might well have been hanged for it. So perhaps he was nothing but a hypocrite, in ordering another man killed. He knew, too, that had it been Ewen standing there by the wall, he could never have done it, no matter if he had been condemned by a court of law. 

And then his mind, going from one thorny issue to another, returned again to the question of the King. It was unquestionable that his sovereign, who held his commission, had committed a dishonourable act. The argument that the rebels did not deserve the consideration due them under the code of war, he had dismissed already in Edinburgh, for a civil war without the constraints of honour and civilised behaviour would be intolerable for the country. And to be met with an honourable action by the rebels, and reply with a dishonourable one—no, it could not be right. 

And nevertheless, Keith held King George's commission, and had sworn allegiance to him. 

Oh, to hell with all this soul-searching—it served no purpose! He must sleep. Keith rolled over on his back again, and grimly began counting his breaths, suppressing with ruthless determination any stray thoughts that might keep him awake. 

While Keith Windham lay sleepless, Lachlan MacMartin sought out the camp fires of the sentries, and with all the skills that he had learnt while hunting and tracking, crept close enough to listen to the talk of the soldiers round the fires. For he was desperate to find out what had befallen his foster-brother, if he could. 

And so Lachlan heard the captain of the watch telling his sergeant the latest gossip: that Captain Windham, who had been thrown in gaol in Luton, and returned in triumph with the Duke of Bedford's regiment in tow, had been forced by Hawley to shoot a rebel, to prove his loyalty. Some red-haired Scotsman, it had been, he added. 

Lachlan clenched his teeth, to prevent his cry of pain from escaping, for he felt as though his soul had died within him. That black-hearted traitor, that—but he could find no words harsh enough to describe the English captain, whom Mac 'ic Ailein had invited into Ardroy and with whom he had broken bread. And he had ridden to Luton to save him—it was that very journey which had led to him being taken prisoner, too, so this Windham was to blame twice over! 

After such a show of friendship, that Windham could have looked Ewen in the eye and shot him! It was beyond all Lachlan could imagine—but the Englishman must care only for his place in the army. 

But had he not apprehended some such tragedy from the very first, when his father told him what he had seen? After all, such prophecies often foretold of death. Lachlan had done his best to stop it, by killing the heron; but that, as Mac 'ic Ailein had predicted, had not prevented the meeting. And now it had come to its bitter end. 

Lachlan very carefully retreated, for he could not be seen and captured now. Not for his own sake, for he no longer much cared if he lived or died, or even whether Prince Charles won the crown or not. He cared only that the black-hearted Englishman should die for what he had done, and when he had retreated far enough from the sentry fires, he took out his _biodag_ and swore on the iron that he would avenge his foster-brother by killing his murderer. 

The next day dawned with a low sky hanging over the flat landscape, threatening rain, and as the Hanoverian army made ready to march, the air was suffused with a drizzle that did not so much fall, as hang in the air in the form of a miserable and raw fog. 

But that afternoon they met at last with General Wade's army, which had made its way down from northern England. They were weary and foot-sore, and had been plagued by desertion, for in the Tyne Gap, when Wade was still trying to catch up with the Jacobite army on its way south on the other side of the hills, they had been caught in the snow and some had even died of the cold. They had with them also the Dutch troops that had been made available for hire, according to treaty, to defend the Hanoverian succession. 

The Jacobites now availed themselves of the billets in Huntingdon that the Hanoverians had left only that morning, and the Hanoverian commanders scouted the area nearby, between Huntingdon and Peterborough, in search of a suitable battle ground, which was not difficult to find on the flat ground near the fens. Tomorrow would be the final reckoning. 

In Huntingdon that same evening, Ewen had found a place for himself and his Camerons to sleep, among the hay in a barn, when his elder foster-brother arrived. 

'I have had a letter from Lachlan,' said Neil. 

'You have? What does it say?' exclaimed Ewen. 

'He has sent it by some men of the Atholl Brigade that he met, while they were scouting. Read it for me, Mac 'ic Ailein.' And Neil thrust the ragged piece of paper, with its rather atrociously spelled Gaelic, into his hands. For Lachlan, since he was of an age with Ewen, had learnt to read and write with him, though he was not drilled in it as thoroughly as Ewen had been. 

Ewen read the letter. 'He thinks that I am dead? And that Captain Windham has killed me? How on earth has such a story got about? I was afraid that Lachlan was still following the Elector's army, thinking I was a prisoner there, but…'

He shook his head, perplexed, but when he read on, the question of how Lachlan had come to believe such a story became less pressing. In alarm, Ewen said, 'Neil, he means to avenge my death on Captain Windham. That must not happen—Windham has saved my life, and if he is killed on my account—oh, I could not stand it!' 

He could not, of course, show the true depth of his feelings, but Neil saw enough, and he put a hand on his foster-brother's arm. 'We must find Lachlan and stop him, then. And not only for Captain Windham's sake, but for his own. He could be shot by the redcoats, trailing after them like that.' 

Ewen took a deep breath, attempting to calm down. 'Yes. Well, we are going after the redcoats regardless, of course. But why did not Lachlan come here, to you, instead of sending a letter?' 

Neil frowned. 'I believe,' he said slowly, 'that he was afraid that Lochiel or Dr Cameron would decide that his duty should lie with the army, rather than with avenging you.' 

Ewen sighed. 'Yes, I believe you are right. Ah, what a curst tangle this is…' 

But that night, as they lay sleeping, Neil was woken by the low, broken utterances Ewen made in his sleep, as he dreamed. He could not tell what he said, for he was mumbling in English, but he heard Lachlan's name, and the name Keith. And no matter that Ewen was his chieftain, and taller than him by about a foot, still Neil remembered him as a small boy, eight years younger than him, when he had likewise talked in his sleep, and Neil had comforted him. He leaned over and took hold of his shoulder, shaking him a little, though not enough to wake him. And Ewen turned over, and subsided. 

The next morning, as Captain Windham stood with his company on the field in order of battle, he reflected grimly that when he had wished for civilised warfare on level ground, such as he had experienced in Flanders, he had not expected it to take place in the heart of England. With all his heart, he wished that he was back in the Highlands, and that the war had never gone further than a few skirmishes among those steep mountains. There were, after all, much worse fates than enduring boredom while shut up in a fort. 

The field seemed as well chosen as it might be, Keith thought, with their flank anchored by a large barn, but he was less sanguine about the weather, which was still wet, and about the troops. They were all of them weary, and after two defeats (or three, counting the Battle of Corryarrick) and problems with desertion, morale was not good. 

It was not improved by the messenger sent by the commander of the French troops, politely pointing out that the four Dutch regiments could not, by treaty, be used in battle against the French. And the Hessian troops which had been sent for from Flanders would not arrive in time. 

But, Keith thought grimly, he would do his duty, despite his discovery of the day before, and he was as sure of his men as he could be. 

In the approaching Jacobite army, Ewen Cameron was as determined to do his, but with far more optimism. His only concern was that he still did know know Lachlan's whereabouts, and he hoped that he had not been captured, or killed. And Keith, of course, was always in his mind. 

In the event, they did not meet in the battle, and neither did Ewen see him there. Truly, Ewen thought he was not meant for command above the level of captain, for he never could keep the whole of the battle in his mind, when it happened: he only knew the sword in his hand, as an extension of himself, and the men immediately about him: his enemies, who were trying to kill him, and his own men, whom he must lead and protect. The smell of gunpowder was sharp in his nose. And the noise of the muskets and the guns—it was incredible, and at one point Archie was shouting at him, at the top of his voice, and it was only from his pointing hand that Ewen understood what he was to do. 

He led his men to charge where Archie directed them, and then Ewen was catching a bayonet-thrust with his targe, with no room in his mind for anything but the next sword-stroke, and the next, and Neil was at his side, swinging his own sword, though the man on his other side had fallen. 

Ewen raised his voice in the Cameron cry, to urge his men on, for he could see the redcoat line in front of him waver. And then it broke, and fell back before them. 

Some while later, Ewen stood with no more enemies before him. He dashed the rain out of his eyes and looked round, and for the briefest moment was alarmed by the redcoats on his left flank, before he saw the white armbands of the Royal Écossais. Taking off his bonnet, he wrung it out, so that it would keep the rain from his eyes better. 

'Mac 'ic Ailein, you are bleeding,' said Neil. 

Ewen was still hot with the exhilaration of the battle, and hardly felt the pain. 'So are you. Or is that someone else's blood?' 

'I don't know, but we're both alive.' Neil grinned at him. 

'Yes. Let us find the wounded among our men, and look for Lochiel, and see what orders he has for us.' 

They found that the battle was over, but Lochiel was among the wounded, with Archie tending to him. 

'Is it serious?' Ewen burst out. 

'He will live, God willing, but this is not a scratch, either,' said Archie tersely. 

'Have you orders for us? I see that we have won, but I have no notion how the battle went, save for the small part of it that I saw. And I could hardly recount that, either.' 

'Donald, you may tell him—it's a good distraction from the pain,' said Archie. 

Lochiel said, his face quite pale but his voice steady, 'We have carried the day. The weather was in our favour, for it was in the enemy's faces, and their muskets would not fire as well in the damp—though ours were affected, as well. Many of them have surrendered. But we should have liked to capture the Elector, and make him and his heir surrender the throne, and that we could not do: the battle was fierce, but I must own that his troops fought bravely, and would not let us take him. They have retreated, such of them as are left to him, and our men, being too tired, cannot follow today. Oh, for a good strong regiment of horse!' 

Here, he hissed in a breath and clenched his teeth as Archie, with a triumphant grunt, brought forth the scrap of fabric from his wound. Ewen politely turned away his gaze. 

'And now you, _Eoghain_ ,' said Archie. 

'I am not—' Ewen began, but Archie would have none of it. 

Ewen felt the sticky blood as Archie investigated his side, and now it stung. 

'A musket-ball has grazed your side,' announced Archie, 'but 'tis not serious, and if we bandage it, you may continue in your duties—but come to me tomorrow, so that I may look at it. When you have brought in all your wounded, attend the Prince.' 

Ewen did. He was in conference with Lord George Murray and some of the other commanders, as well as some important supporters who had come with them from London. Their chief concern was how to capture the Elector, in order that he should be persuaded to abdicate the throne—this would decisively end the war, and help convince his supporters that they must accept King James. In the 1688 Revolution, Prince Charles' grandfather had never abdicated, which made the situation most unclear, with both sides claiming that they were in the right. 

But, however, he must be captured first. The council did not seriously believe that he meant to continue the campaign now, after this defeat, and in the midst of winter—rather, he must intend to escape to Hanover, and there, if he did not give up, try to raise interest and new troops for an attempt next year. 

Ewen stood behind the Prince, ready to carry despatches should there be any need, but he only listened to the council's deliberations with half an ear, for his thoughts were with Keith. Where was he now? He might have been taken prisoner, as many officers seemed to have been, or he might be with the Elector's remaining troops. If he had not died, that is, but Ewen was trying with all his might not to think about that possibility. 

The council concluded that they would put together forces to go east to search the coast, to find and capture the Elector, if they could. They would not send the French, for it might smack of an occupying force—no, besides what horse they had, it would be best to send the Manchester Regiment, as being English troops. But, despite them being English, perhaps not the spontaneously formed Kent Regiment, or, as it was informally called, the Smugglers' Regiment—five hundred men, with motley but effective equipment, who had come up with the French—for they perhaps had not the requisite discipline. 

Since Lochiel was injured and not there to speak for them, Ewen announced that he was sure the Camerons would be glad to join the search. 

And after the council, Ewen went to obtain Archie's approval of it, since he did not wish to disturb Lochiel in his rest, and then approached Neil, to hear his account of the condition of the Ardroy men and see if any of them would volunteer.

* * *

In the battle earlier that day, Keith's company had been assigned to shore up one of Wade's regiments, which had been depleted by ill health and desertion. Keith felt their poor morale and did his best to encourage his company to be the steady rock that the regiment needed, though his own heart was not quite in it. 

It was that loss of heart, which kept him from grasping and responding to the broader sweep of the battle—in a glance, he saw the King's beleaguered standard to his left, but he continued doggedly as before. His regiment had their own troubles, and he kept his men firing, reloading, firing again, into the smoke. They were not facing Highlanders now, but disciplined French troops; it was Fontenoy over again, though now on English soil, and the taste of it was bitter in his mouth. 

And then suddenly the regiment was facing Highlanders, for their right flank was being charged by them, sword and targe in hand—and where were the dragoons which were supposed to guard that flank?—but he did not know. 

Save for his men, none in the regiment had faced the Highland charge before, and demoralised as they were, they broke in the face of it. His company could not hold, when none around them were, and those who still remained fell back. 

In the confusion and smoke, Keith emerged from a swordfight with a Highlander, and with the man's blood on his sword, he found himself near to where he had left Steady. The ground was littered with bodies, most of them with red coats, and in their retreat—such would be a charitable word for it—they had been pursued Keith knew not where. 

Keith mounted and surveyed the battle: with a jolt, he saw that the King's standard was gone—had he been captured? Or retreated? No way to know; but he himself was now a target, for he perceived some French soldiers pointing at him, and taking up their muskets. Keith set his heels to Steady's flanks, and the horse readily responded. 

They rode away with some haste, for Keith had no wish to be shot or captured, and the way the battle was going, it was clear that this would be his fate should he stay, and it must already be his men's fate. Grimly, he considered his duty: if the King's party had not been captured, but had retreated, he must try to find them. He threw a cloak round his shoulders, so as to make less of a red-painted target, and cast about. Through the clouds, he could see the sun to his left; he was headed west, then. 

Where would the King go? Since the battle was comprehensively lost, he would most probably head to the coast, and to Hanover: the opposite of Keith's direction. Perhaps if he circled round to the north…

Keith attempted to do so, but then saw a small party of the Jacobite horse, and was obliged to turn back. And now what? 

He could do nothing. And as that knowledge came to him, it felt to Keith like a dull emptiness. He gave Steady his reins, and the horse made its way farther from the noise of battle, which still sounded behind them. He had been excellently well trained to tolerate it, but like any sensible beast, he did not like it. 

They came to the Great North Road, and Keith thought they would do well to keep off it. So he went by small roads heading south-west, and found himself, when it had almost grown too dark to continue, in the vicinity of Bedford. It would have been quite reasonable to report to the Duke, who was no doubt anxious for news and would have given Keith lodgings for the night. But though the Duke seemed a good man, and would hardly have metaphorically shot the messenger, Keith shied away from the thought. 

Instead, he went to a modest inn. Shaking his head at the groom's offer to stable his horse for him, he got into the stall with him, and, taking off his saddle and bridle, gave him a thorough rubbing down and brushing. 

'You're a good boy,' he muttered to the horse, who nosed at him in the hopes of a treat, which he had none. This simple, undemanding society comforted Keith somewhat, as the brushing soothed the horse, and so they did well by one another. But he would have to venture among people soon, for he was very hungry, and they would see by his red coat that he was in the army, and...no, he must take it off, and put it in his saddlebag. 

He put on his other coat, and came into the common room for supper. The innkeeper was a garrulous man, and especially so now, when the country was in an uproar and everyone was anxious for the least scrap of news. But Keith's dark, frowning manner discouraged the innkeeper's attempts to question him, and when he had got his plate of mutton chops, gravy, and bread, he sat down in a corner to eat by himself. 

Keith got his own bed, but not his own room. He shared it with a weatherbeaten man in his fifties who perhaps was a farmer; he only nodded at Keith in taciturn acknowledgement, but said nothing, and Keith was grateful for it. He got out his journal and went to sit close by the candle on the little table between the beds, for recording the day's events often helped him make sense of them, but found that his pencil was idle in his hand, and he could write nothing. 

Keith forced himself to confront the dark suspicion that had lain in his mind all day: that he had not done his full duty. He had seen that the King's standard was in danger, but he had done nothing. To be sure, his own men were also hard pressed, and he had had no orders: no court-martial could have convicted him for his actions in the battle, but in his own heart, he knew that he had not done his utmost. 

And, moreover, he knew why. Those words that Hawley had thrown at him had gnawed their way into his mind like a worm of doubt, and had, without his conscious decision, undermined his will to fight. And here he was: he had fled the battlefield, and lived. 

_You're nae a better chiel than A wiz,_ said the deserter's voice in his mind, full of scorn. Keith could picture him, and indeed, thought he would never quite forget him: a stocky, powerful man, glowering at him defiantly under that bright red hair. _Disnae seem sae bad tae rin awa, richt?_

Keith said nothing in reply, for he did not know what to say. 

He put down his pencil, for he would get no writing done tonight. The other man was already in bed, with his face turned towards the wall, and Keith got into his, and blew out the candle. But his thoughts were not so easy to extinguish as the flame, and they troubled him far into the night. He thought, too, of Ewen, who had surely been in the battle today, but somehow the thought of him could bring him no comfort, for unlike Keith, Ewen had surely done his duty today to the utmost of his ability. The thought that Ewen might have fallen in the battle, he did not quite have the fortitude to consider. 

Ewen, meanwhile, had discharged his duties as aide-de-camp, and though he would rise early the next day, he could not rest yet. He went first to the officer in charge of prisoners, who showed him the lists of captured officers. With a sinking heart, Ewen saw that Keith Windham was not on them. He must, then, be with the Elector's remaining troops, or have escaped in some other fashion. Or, the only other possibility: he lay dead on the battlefield. 

With a chill, Ewen remembered Alan Stewart, and his reminder that when a _taibhsear_ saw anyone, it was often a warning of death. And Keith faced even more danger than a battlefield now: Lachlan was hunting him down, and Ewen knew how deadly his dirk could be. Old Angus had foretold them one more meeting, but what if it was Keith's wraith that he was to meet? 

No, Ewen could not sleep yet; he took up a lantern. 

'Where are you going?' asked Neil. 

'Looking for Captain Windham. He's not among the captured officers, and I fear that he might be dead, for I think there were not many of them that escaped.' Ewen attempted to conceal the emotion in his voice, but Neil gave him a troubled glance, and though he looked weary, rose to follow him.

'Neil, you need not come.' 

'You shouldn't do that alone, Mac 'ic Ailein.' And he took the lantern from Ewen, to leave his hands free. 

The night was dark, for the moon would not rise until late, and the lantern only illuminated a small circle of the stubbled field round them, on which the blood hardly showed against the dark soil, for the thaw had melted the snow, though it was still cold enough that their breath frosted the air. 

The bodies that lay strewn on the field were cold, too, and Ewen felt it when he bent down to turn the redcoats that lay with their faces turned down, taking hold of a shoulder, or only turning a head so that he might see the face. The only way he could gain surety, here, was if he found Keith's dead body; if he did not, it proved nothing, and Keith might still be dead. He was glad that he was not alone. 

'God rest their souls,' said Neil, in a low voice. 

'Yes,' replied Ewen. 'Thank you—I'm glad you came with me.' 

Then he drew in a breath, for he could see on the sleeve of the next redcoat uniform that the facings were the same colour as Keith's. 

Ewen must have made a small sound, for Neil said, 'Shall I turn him, then?' 

'No, I will do it.' And he did, and breathed a sigh of relief: it was not Keith. 

But it meant that his regiment must have been here, so that they were in the right part of the battlefield. And Ewen renewed his efforts, searching the ground so assiduously that he did not see the other lantern, some distance away. 

But Neil did. 'Mac 'ic Ailein,' he said, taking hold of his sleeve. 

Ewen stood, and as the light fell on his face, the man holding the other lantern gave an inarticulate cry, and came towards them. 

'Lachlan!' Ewen cried, and then they were embracing. 

And thus in the midst of that field of death, in the search for cold revenge, Lachlan MacMartin found again that foster-brother who was dearer to him than life, and whom he had thought lost forever. 

'Mac 'ic Ailein, I thought you were dead,' he said, in a voice that was close to tears. 

'I know what you thought,' Ewen said, 'but 'tis not true! Oh, I am glad we found you.' 

'Lachlan, you should have come to me, instead of sending me that letter,' scolded Neil, with the reproach of an older and wiser brother. 'Oh, come here.' And he embraced his brother, for he had been truly worried about him. 

'Were you also searching for Captain Windham?' said Ewen. 

'Yes,' said Lachlan, his face growing hard again. 

'Lachlan, whatever you heard, it is not true! Windham is my friend, and I assure you he has done me no harm—you see the proof of that before your eyes. Promise me you'll not hurt him.' 

'If you say so, I promise you I won't,' said Lachlan, and looked at his foster-brother as if he still could not believe he was alive. 

'You have been tracking him: did you see him in the battle, then?' asked Ewen. 

'I saw him in the beginning of it, near to this place. And I saw the retreat of what was left of their army, with the standard of the Elector, but I could not see Windham with them, and I think I would have, if he were there. At least if he were on horseback. That's why I came back here, to see if the battle had done my work for me.' 

Ewen shivered at his turn of phrase. 'And you have not found his body?'

Lachlan shook his head. 'I have been over this ground thoroughly.' 

'Then, if he is not a prisoner, and is not with the remnants of the Elector's army, and not dead…' It might still be the case that he lay dead on some other part of the battlefield, but they could not search more tonight. And Ewen now hoped that he might have escaped in some other direction. 

'Come, Lachlan,' said Ewen decisively. 'We will leave the battlefield, and you'll go with us tomorrow, to chase the Elector.' 

And Lachlan came with them, though he wondered darkly why Ewen should care so much about this English officer, even had he not betrayed him. 

The next morning, they set off for the coast along with a motley assortment of other Jacobite forces, including about a hundred of the Camerons, with Ewen as their captain. A part of him would rather have continued his search for Keith, but that would have to wait, for his duty was clear, and he could do Keith no service by searching for him. If he was alive, God willing, they would find each other, for they had pledged it at their meeting in the gaol at Luton. And they had still one more fated meeting. 

King George and his heir had indeed escaped, along with some of their followers, for the Duke of Cumberland, his younger son, had fought bravely to buy them that space, and perished in doing it. They headed for the coast, by small roads such as only the locals knew, and the Jacobites followed, splitting up to search for them. 

Their search was fruitless, for when they came a few days later to the small village of Gedney, the inhabitants told them that the Hanoverians had left on a Navy ship. And so it only remained to them to rejoin the main army, and report the Elector's escape. 

Ewen reflected, on the ride back, that his hopes on that happy day at Ardroy when he had first heard that the Camerons would rise, had now been quite fulfilled. To be sure the Elector had not explicitly surrendered, but still, he supposed that King James would soon be on the throne, and he might return to Ardroy. 

For of the difficulties that remained, Ewen was still largely ignorant: the troops raised by the Campbells, which held Argyll and had not yet given up the Hanoverian cause; and the resistance that still remained in cities such as Liverpool and Glasgow, which would perhaps not be difficult to quench in a military sense, but which would live on in other ways, only to be mollified, perhaps, by concessions forced from the new King. For a monarch could not actually rule by decree, even in countries where such was the case on paper, which was far from being true of Britain. He, or she, must be influenced by the many different factions, regions, and interests of the country, or risk being flouted—or deposed. 

So had the Stuarts been flouted, when they had tried to forbid the conventicles of the Presbyterian faith, which had sprung up more the more they were suppressed; and so had the Hanoverians been flouted, when they tried to forbid Scotland's trade after the union of 1707, only to find that the customs officers were powerless to stop the smugglers, who turned to Jacobitism instead. 

Ewen rode, with his Camerons, to London, where Charles Edward Stuart's father had landed with a French escort, and with a victorious Jacobite army on the doorstep of the city, Parliament yielded to the inevitable, and James Francis Edward Stuart was crowned James III of Great Britain and Ireland, in splendour at Westminster Abbey. Ewen wept for joy at the sight, the tears running down his cheeks without shame, for this was the fulfilment of the faith and the political creed in which he had been raised since he was a child. 

Many of the peers also yielded to Stuart rule, with the prudential thought that the earlier they did so, the more interest they might gain. Some even began to say that they had long thought a second Stuart Restoration to be an inevitable thing, though no such thought had ever crossed their minds before. But a significant minority continued to hold out for a Hanoverian return, much as had been the case after the Revolution of 1688, though in the reverse. 

Most of the Army and Navy would likewise follow, and accepted their new sovereign, though some officers refused their new commissions, to seek their fortunes in Hanover, the Low Countries, or some other nation more to their taste than Stuart Britain. 

But Ewen, now that his King was on the throne, did not have much attention to spare for these matters, for above everything else he sought now to find Keith Windham. He enquired at Stowe House, where he found that his own tidings of Keith were more recent than theirs. Keith's fellow officers of the Royal Scots, who had been captured at the battle of Huntingdon, knew nothing of his fate. 

And Ewen felt that even the glory of seeing King James on the throne could not make up for the loss of that staunchly Hanoverian captain who had so captured his heart. For he could not help fearing now that Keith was after all dead, and began almost to lose faith in that fifth meeting which his foster-father's prophecy had promised him.


	2. Chapter 2

Keith Windham, meanwhile, had awakened in the morning after the battle at his Bedford inn. His taciturn companion of the night before had left the room early, but Keith lay still in bed, for he had no notion of what he should do, once he left it. Staring up into the ceiling, he contemplated returning to London: the triumph of the Jacobites—the notion, intolerable to him, of accepting a commission from the Stuarts. Conversely, he thought of seeking out such pockets of Hanoverian resistance as still remained; but the King must have fled the country, or had tried to, at least—for Keith did not know whether he had succeeded. And Keith could not imagine that such local resistance would succeed, at least not now. No, at this point a Hanoverian victory would have to wait, for King George to gather support and come back. 

He might join the King himself in Hanover—but here his mind shied away, for the same reason that he had lost heart on the battlefield, and he only lay in indecisive misery. There was no use thinking of it, regardless, until he knew whether the King had escaped. 

But, hearing the noise of some servant outside the door, Keith sat up with a curse—he could not stay here, after all. 

He saddled Steady, with no more than a vague notion of where he would ride once he was on his back, and began at first only to head in the same direction as yesterday. But perhaps that direction would lead him right after all, for it came to him suddenly that he was not so very far from Buckingham—only two days' ride, perhaps. And there he might find at least a temporary shelter, while he decided on his next step. 

With this sense of purpose, though it be only for his immediate future, he quickened Steady's steps, and reached Bletchley that evening. His thoughts, while riding, could not help but be occupied by that one Jacobite officer whose fate he would give much to know; to be sure, he might have learnt it by surrendering, but he was too proud for that. In any case, Ewen's fate could not be affected by Keith's actions now—he had survived the battle, or he had not. Keith knew well the risks run by the clan gentry, for they were always on the first line, in the Highland charge, and he reminded himself grimly not to count on Ewen's survival. 

The next day, he rode on from Bletchley to Buckingham, and turning north, followed the long, straight avenue lined with beeches, the golden-brown leaves of autumn still on the spreading branches even in winter, till he reached the Stowe country house. The imposing south portico, with its Tuscan columns, faced him, and would have impressed most visitors with the importance of the owner, which was indeed its primary function. 

But Keith, who had played catch round those columns as a boy, and caught frogs in the lake of the baroque park, felt only a sense of having reached a haven, however temporary. Though he was not a true son of the house, but only a step-son, he felt sure of a welcome here. Somewhat guiltily, he even felt relief that the Earl and his family might not be here, for otherwise he should have had to deal all the more speedily with the reality that would soon enough catch up with him. 

He went to the kitchen entrance, and asked one of the young maids to send word to the housekeeper. 

'Mr Keith! I had no knowledge of your coming—my lord is in London,' said Joan Edwards, the formidable woman who had managed the household of the Stowe country estate since before Keith's mother had become Lady Stowe. She was now in her sixties, and addressed him with the familiarity due to one who had known him at nine years old stealing fresh tarts in the kitchen. 

'I am sorry not to have sent word, Mrs Edwards,' said Keith meekly. 'The house must be closed up, but if I might stay a few days in my old room, I'll not venture into the rest of the house.' 

'Yes, of course.' She frowned. 'You are not in uniform—do you have news of the war?' 

'The war is lost,' said Keith bluntly, and she gasped. 

He gathered his wits, and apologised. 'I should not have broken it to you like that—you need not fear that the house will be sacked, though it might be commandeered for billets, if the Jacobite army should head this way. Though I think they will not. It means change—political change; how much, I cannot say at present.' 

Her mouth tightened; then she nodded, absorbing the news. 'Well, I shall have your room prepared. Will you have supper there?' 

'Yes, thank you,' said Keith, 'I don't need anything fancy—you know I am used to army food.' 

He went to the stable, where he shook his head at the groom offering to take Steady for him. 'Thank you, John; I'll do it myself. But perhaps you have a carrot for me to give him?' 

While he waited for his room to be made ready, he once again brushed down his horse, and John provided carrots, which Steady ate most greedily. 

During the next day, Keith kept to himself, walking the grounds in the daylight hours, or riding one of the Earl's horses which needed exercising. After the early dusk, he at last managed to set down the events of the last few days in his journal. But it was a bare enough narrative, for he could not quite write of the doubts and fears for the future that plagued him. No doubt he was a coward, not to face facts and decide on a course of action, and not to go directly to London and let his family know that he was alive—and find out how they had fared. 

But what could he do now? His whole adult life had been spent in the army, and he thought he was reasonably competent at it. Should he try to find another trade? For he had no fortune or estate of his own—he must work for a living…

And what had happened to the men of his company, while he had fled the battlefield? He hoped, for their sake, that they had been captured, for that was surely the best fate for them. Though some must surely have died on that wintry battlefield...

A knock on the door interrupted his thoughts. 'Come in,' he said, and a maid entered with his supper. 

'Compliments of the cook, sir,' she said. 

Despite the difficult task he had been engaged in, Keith could not help smiling when he saw the contents of the tray. 'Be sure to thank her for the apple tart in particular.' 

The next few days passed in like fashion, until Keith in the stable one afternoon, taking care of Steady, heard the door open, and then a familiar voice. 

'Is she well, John?' 

'Yes, Mr Masters, but I'm glad you came—I wouldn't want to handle this foaling without you.' 

Keith came out of the stall. 'Masters!'

'Mr Keith!' said the elderly stablemaster, with both surprise and warmth in his voice. 'I didn't expect to find you here. Autumn is foaling, and you know how my lord dotes on her, and has hopes for her foal, so he sent me down from London.' 

'I do, indeed. I presume that means the family is well?' 

'God be thanked, yes. We have all kept our heads down, in this time of upheaval. My lord is not a soldier, and the young master is still a boy.' 

'I am glad to hear it.' Keith wished he might also somehow bear news of Ewen's fate, but of course there was no hope of that. 

They both went to Autumn's stall, where the fine chestnut mare stood broad-bellied, with her head over the stall door, regarding them with a curious gaze. 

'Is the war lost altogether?' said Masters in a low voice. 

'Yes,' replied Keith briefly and they stood silent for a space. The dim and peaceful stable was full of the smell of hay and of horses, with only the sounds of the contented animals chewing their oats, or shifting their hooves on the floor. 

''Tis perhaps not my place to ask, but—what will you do now, Mr Keith?' 

'Of course you may ask. But—I do not know.' Keith turned his face away, stroking Autumn's velvet nose. Her nostrils widened as she smelled his hand. 

Before Lord Stowe, Masters had served Keith's father, Colonel Philip Windham, when he worked his way up the ranks, serving with distinction under Marlborough, until he died bravely and honourably in battle. And his son now felt the sting of failure and defeat, no matter that he could hardly shoulder the full responsibility for that defeat. But he could do so for his own actions, and he hardly knew, still, whether he should feel shame for them or not—and yet that very doubt assailed his mind in a way he could not speak of. The image of the King's standard, as he had seen it during the battle, came again before his inner eye. 

With the tactfulness of a well-trained servant, though one who had known Keith throughout his boyhood and so could take greater liberties, Masters asked no more, but only turned the conversation, speaking of the foal's sire, and his qualities, and whether Keith had ridden Triumph yet during his stay. 

The next afternoon, Keith did ride out on Triumph, a spirited grey stallion who was a joy to take hedges with, reminding him somewhat of his previous steed, lost to him at Loch Oich side. 

And, trotting down the long Stowe Avenue, Keith saw another rider approaching, a tall man on a black horse, with a blue bonnet on his head. His heart began to pound, for he knew his every movement, the set of his head. It could not be—but his heart knew that it was. 

He pulled up his horse, and the other rider did likewise. Ewen looked magnificent: every inch the Jacobite Highland officer, the conquering hero of the war. His usual workmanlike plaid and philabeg, or trews when he was riding, had been replaced by a splendid deep blue coat trimmed with a gold that brought out the red-gold in his hair, white breeches, and an embroidered sword belt, though he had kept his Cameron plaid against the cold. But the elaborate tricorn hat, he had left behind today in favour of his simple blue bonnet. 

'Keith?' said Ewen, somewhat uncertainly. 

Keith flushed, for he felt himself to be rather disreputable, in an old and shabby coat and breeches he kept for riding, and he had not shaved that morning. But no doubt it reflected their current positions accurately enough. 

He cleared his throat. 'You are...most welcome,' he said, so as not to leave him in doubt of it. 

'I am glad to hear it,' said Ewen's deep voice. 

Oh, but his voice, and his gaze, and every least detail about him—he was welcome as the sun after a week of rain. Keith drank in the sight of him. 

'He is magnificent,' said Keith, indicating Ewen's well-balanced, strong-necked black stallion, almost gleaming in the sun. 

'Yes, well. He is quarrelsome, is what he is,' said Ewen, and indeed that beautiful animal was laying his ears back and showing his teeth to Triumph, who kept a haughty distance, as if too well-trained to respond. 'But magnificent, yes. The Prince wishes his aides-de-camp to properly manifest his consequence.' 

Which explained the clothes, as well—although Keith wondered that Ewen's Prince was not concerned that his aide-de-camp would outshine him. 

Ewen drew in a breath, and continued softly. 'Keith, I feared you were dead. I looked for you everywhere in London—and heard nothing of you. I came here on a chance—'twas the last place I could think of to search.' 

Keith felt abruptly ashamed of himself. This damned indecision of his had had a cost, and not only to himself. 'I am sorry for not sending you word,' he said, turning his face away, but not before Ewen saw something of the doubt and pain on it. 'And—I have worried for you, as well.' 

'It's no matter now, for I have found you at last.' Though they were quite alone, Ewen lowered his voice and said in a husky tone, 'Keith, I have taken a room at the inn. Come with me, and let me take you to bed.' 

A wave of heat washed over Keith, and he looked away. 'I have not washed properly in days,' he muttered in shame. And his stubble—! 

Ewen smiled. 'That is easily remedied. If you still..?' 

_'Yes,'_ said Keith, and came. 

He had been considering whether he should invite Ewen into the house, but going to the inn seemed much the better course of action. They rode side by side, though at some distance, for Ewen's stallion was still occasionally offering to bite. 

'How did you fare, after the battle?' asked Ewen. 'You were not among the captured officers. I looked for you among the dead, on the battlefield, but God be thanked, I did not find you there. But...I could not be sure that I had searched everywhere.' 

'I would have been captured, had I stayed. But I...it was not possible for me to join the King's retreat, and I escaped in another direction.' Keith had not the fortitude yet to give more than a summary description of that day. 

Ewen gazed at him, but did not ask for more. 'As for me, I joined the search for the El—for the Hanoverians who retreated towards the coast, but they escaped us, and left the country.' 

So the King had escaped, then! That was news, indeed. 

'Since then, I have been in London. I don't know if the news has reached you: King James has been crowned.' There was no triumph in Ewen's tone, only matter-of-fact announcement. 

'No, it has not, but I suppose 'twas to be expected.' Keith's voice was also carefully neutral. 

'I enquired for you at your step-father's house, but they had no news, and neither did the other officers of the Royal Scots. There was a detachment going this way, to escort—well. No matter. I offered to come, that I might see if you were possibly here. It was the last place I could think of to search.' 

'I spent much of my boyhood here, after my mother remarried,' said Keith. 'I suppose I have some sentimental attachment to it.' 

They were now arrived at the inn, and handed their horses over to a groom. Ewen, in a businesslike tone, announced to the innkeeper that another gentleman would share his room tonight, and ordered a bath. Only the slight flush on his cheeks might have suggested the purpose to which the room would be put tonight, but there was, after all, nothing out of the ordinary in his request, and he had been out riding. 

Meanwhile, Keith sent one of the boys hanging about the place with a message to Stowe House, so that Masters would not fear that he and Triumph had had an accident. 

'Are you hungry?' asked Ewen, but Keith shook his head, and they waited, making polite small talk for the benefit of the public space they were in, until a maid came up to let them know that the bath was ready. She gave Ewen an admiring glance, which Keith noted with amusement, for he quite shared her sentiments, but to which the object of her admiration seemed oblivious. 

'I'll wait here while you bathe,' said Ewen. 

'Thank you,' said Keith composedly. 'May I borrow your razor? I neglected to bring mine.' 

'Yes, of course—it's on the small table. My room is on the far right, after the stairs.' 

Keith performed his ablutions with a beating heart, and as the small tub of hot water was cooling, he lathered his face and began to shave. 

A knock on the door. 'Yes?' said Keith. 

'I'm sorry—perhaps you are not done?' said Ewen's voice. 

'Not quite, but come in,' replied Keith. He heard the door open behind him, and then the key turn in the lock after Ewen closed it again. A draft of cooler air made the hairs on his neck prickle, or perhaps that was the sensation of being watched. 

He turned his head, to see Ewen take off his plaid and settle on one of the two beds. Keith felt rather exposed, with only a towel round his waist, and ridiculous too, with his face half lathered. 

But Ewen's gaze on him was hungry. 'Do you mind if I watch you?' 

Keith flushed and cleared his throat. 'No,' he said. 

He tilted his head and proceeded, concentrating on the familiar movements and praying that his hands would not shake. At any rate he did not nick himself, and he knelt to rinse off the last of the soap. 

'Oh, Keith,' Ewen breathed, rising from the bed. 

Keith regarded him, still clad in that splendid coat which set off his hair and eyes so well. 'I feel rather at a disadvantage,' he said. 'You are still fully clothed.' 

'I shall address that, if you wish,' said Ewen promptly. 'But first, I shall move that tub—for I think we would prefer not to be interrupted.' 

'Very prudent of you,' said Keith. They put the tub outside the door, for the maid to fetch. 

And then, without taking his eyes from Keith's, Ewen unbuttoned and shed the coat, slinging it unceremoniously in a chair, then loosened his neckcloth and unbuttoned his waistcoat. Keith watched his gradual disrobing until he was barefoot and barelegged, in only his voluminous white linen shirt, which hid his arousal rather better than Keith's towel could hide his. 

But Keith could no longer keep his hands off the vision that stood before him. He took a step towards him; and Ewen, seeing the invitation, met him halfway, sliding his hands into Keith's still damp hair and drawing him into a kiss. Keith raised his head to meet him, and they came together, this third time, so simply and easily, so eagerly, mouths open and knowing already how to fit together. 

Keith slid his hands along Ewen's back, smoothing down the fabric of his shirt. Ewen kissed Keith's throat and jaw, and Keith shivered at his mouth on the tender, newly shaved skin. He felt raw, exposed, all his emotions near the surface. 

And then Ewen made an impatient little noise, tugging his towel loose and immediately pressing home his advantage by sliding his hands further down Keith's backside. There was nothing between them but the shirt, then, and though as a barrier it was thin enough that it only excited the imagination, Keith wanted it gone. 

'Take it off,' he said, and Ewen complied, pulling it over his head. 

Keith had the impulse to look at him, for he had never yet seen him fully naked, but Ewen would have none of it—he stepped close again, and their kisses now grew rather more passionate. Keith impelled him towards the bed, which was not wide, but as Keith intended only to push Ewen down upon it and pin him down heavily with his body, that was no matter. 

Ewen proved very willing. And that was the last act with any degree of forethought that either of them performed in a while, for instinct and long pent-up desire took over: Keith thrust against him without restraint, and Ewen's strong hands as he urged him on, and the strength of Ewen's body moving underneath him, only inflamed him further. 

It could not last long, and when their first urgent desire had spent itself, they both lay panting, their hearts racing. 

'I did not intend for that to be over so quickly,' said Keith presently, when he had gained the power of rational thought again. 

Ewen shifted to lie on his side, facing Keith, and turned a blissful smile on him. 'It is far from over—we have all night.' 

'Mmm,' said Keith, and gave him a leisurely but thorough kiss. 

But then he got up, reaching for his discarded towel to wipe himself off. 'If we wish to lie on that bed all night, let us try to keep it dry.' 

Ewen looked at him standing there, comfortably and beautifully naked. 'You know, I used to think you were quite modest—I supposed it was the Englishman in you. You always turned your back, when we shared a room.' 

Keith raised an eyebrow, handing him the towel. 'Oh, surely you can guess why I did that.' 

Ewen's smile widened. 'Yes, I suppose I can.' 

Keith shook his head. 'No use tempting myself with what I thought I couldn't have, or risk betraying myself.' 

'No, I see that,' said Ewen. Then he frowned. 'But I seem to remember you were quite modest even in the Highlands. You would never bathe where I could see you.' 

Keith rolled his eyes. 'Exactly.' 

'What, really?' said Ewen, astonished. 

Keith said, with some embarrassment, 'I don't suppose you remember this, but on the morning that we left Invergarry, 'twas quite hot, and you stopped to cool off in a stream. Your—your kilt rode up, and your shirt was wet...well, it quite discomposed me.' 

Ewen seemed still dumbfounded. 'You wanted me even then?' 

'Oh, I think I wanted you from the day I first saw you,' Keith confessed, 'but that was the first time I admitted it to myself—I could hardly help doing so.' 

'Well, I assure you I didn't do it to entice you! I had no thought of it,' said Ewen. 'And I wouldn't have supposed you to harbour such thoughts of me, back then—you seemed rather cold to me, at times. Not always, but…'

Best to have it out, for it could not hurt, now. 'I'm afraid I _was_ deliberately cold to you, and I apologise for it. I hoped that by keeping my distance from you, I might extinguish that most inconvenient attraction that I felt for you. For you must see how inappropriate it was—you were an enemy officer, and you held my parole besides.' 

Ewen sat up, and was now regarding him seriously. 'I had no notion of it. But of course I forgive you—I am only glad you didn't succeed in your resolution.' 

Keith smiled at him. 'My attraction to you was much too strong for that.' 

Ewen stood, and came to embrace him. Now that the first rush of desire was past, Keith felt all the intimacy of it: the warmth and softness of his skin, the brush of his hair against Keith's nose, as he turned his face into Ewen's neck. 'And when did you know, then?' 

'I remember the moment precisely,' said Ewen, in a contemplative voice. 'We were in your room in Edinburgh, and I had just told you of the prophecy. But, having come to be aware of it, I saw some of my earlier memories in a new light. I think it had grown in me for some time, without my conscious knowledge.' 

He let Keith go, and said, 'I don't want to dress and go downstairs, but I am a little hungry.' From his saddlebags he brought forth bread and cheese. 'Do you want some?' 

Keith assented, and they sat on the bed with their backs against the wall, and broke bread together. Ewen took his plaid to lay over both their shoulders, and thus they sat companionably together. 

But, as they were both still naked, the temptation to touch eventually became irresistible, and after all, there was no reason to resist it. A casual hand on a leg became a caress that explored further, and they turned to each other with reawakened desire. 

'Keith,' said Ewen against his lips, 'May I take you in my mouth? I have been thinking of it.' 

Keith thought that Ewen could feel for himself what his reaction to this idea was, but to make it fully clear, he said, 'Yes—you are entirely welcome to it.' 

And Ewen, with a clear purpose, turned to arrange pillows against the wall, and directed Keith to sit against them, at the short end of the bed. Then he lay down along the length of it himself, propping himself up on his elbows to look up at Keith. 

'Are you comfortable?' he asked, and slid his hands up Keith's thighs, urging them farther apart. 

Keith nodded wordlessly, his breath coming quick. For this exposed state, with Ewen so near, had already brought him to a considerable pitch of excitement. 

'I'm glad,' said Ewen. 

He took Keith's hard length in his hand, and, looking down on it as if it were a gift just for him that he was particularly pleased to receive, planted a little kiss on the tip of it. Keith made a small noise of surprise, as much, or more, at the gesture than the sensation—for all his previous encounters with men, nothing had prepared him for Ewen. 

And then Ewen let him slide more fully into his mouth. _'Oh,'_ Keith groaned, and Ewen took this as encouragement. He was inexperienced, surely, but Keith would rather have his clear enthusiasm and affection than any amount of skill from a man to whom he had no attachment. 

'Have you done this before?' Keith asked, curious. He thought not. 

'Once, but only briefly, and not...to completion,' said Ewen, and Keith wondered silently who that other man had been. 

But Ewen continued, smiling mischievously, 'Do you really wish me to be speaking now? It rather interferes with this activity.' 

'No, you are right,' said Keith, and drew in a breath as Ewen lowered his head again. 

He looked down on his lover, at the strong lines of his back, the perfect muscled curves of his backside, which was working a little as if he were aroused by the task at hand and trying to find some relief. His auburn hair was lying spread over his shoulders, and Keith gathered it up, careful to be gentle, and not force his head in any way. 

Ewen lifted his head up. 'Do I please you?' he asked, his voice rough. 

'Surely you can tell that you do,' said Keith, for his breath was coming ragged, and the little sounds he was making must be enough to let Ewen know how very much he pleased him. 

'Yes—but tell me if there is anything further I should do, or not do.' 

Another time, Keith might tell him what in particular he enjoyed, but now he only said unsteadily, 'Ewen, please—' and he saw the quick satisfied glint of Ewen's smile before he returned to his work with renewed zeal. 

_'Oh_ —Ewen, I am rather close—you don't need to—to take it in your mouth,' Keith said with some urgency, and attempted to convey this with his hands, too, but Ewen made a little dissenting noise and, with determination, kept his mouth and tongue working. And so Keith came ever closer to that brink, and with a helpless noise of pleasure was brought over it. 

And then Ewen, at first taking it without hesitation, drew a breath, began to cough, and withdrew. 

'Sorry,' said Keith, still dazed with pleasure, though it was hardly his fault. 

'Nnnrggh,' said Ewen, clearing his throat. 'Oh—in my _nose!'_ He reached for a handkerchief from his coat pocket and blew his nose in it, and then began to laugh. 'I suppose that's what I get for overconfidence!' 

He coughed again, and reached for the flask of water on the table, and drank from it. Keith, too, laughed, since he was taking it so well. 

Ewen set the flask down, and wiped his face. 'It is rather like snot, too,' he muttered. 

Keith was surprised into a fresh fit of laughter, which provoked Ewen into more, too, until they were giggling together like boys, each setting the other off. 

Finally Ewen took a deep breath, and calmed down. 'Well. Clearly I need more practice at this.' 

Keith raised an eyebrow. 'I'm glad it has not put you off doing it—and I assure you that it doesn't need to end up in one's nose.' 

'No, I thought not,' replied Ewen. 'Ah, Keith. Come here.' 

And Keith lay down by Ewen's side, feeling uncomplicatedly happy, as if this room, this night, was a sort of haven in which he could put aside the cares and doubts of the world for a brief while. His eyes began to drift shut as he lay with his head against Ewen's shoulder, for his desire indeed had been sated for tonight. 

But Ewen's, as he could feel against his thigh, was not, and Keith roused himself, for it was a poor lover who would leave his bed-partner unsatisfied. 

He got up, to stand on hands and knees above Ewen. 'What do you want?' 

'Oh—do with me as you like.' Ewen looked up at him with trust and anticipation in his eyes. 

Keith looked down upon him, and found it a very welcome invitation. He gave him a slow smile. 'I will, then. You must give me some time to explore, for I have not really done so before.' 

He began with Ewen's throat and neck, using his lips and tongue, and occasionally teeth, to find where he was sensitive, and then, pushing Ewen's arms above his head, admired the swell of muscle where his sword arm joined his chest. Keith put his mouth on that, as well, drawing in the scent of him. He must have washed that day, but Keith liked the underlying scent of his body and of the clean sweat on him, indeed, found that it roused him so that if he could have, he might have grown hard again. 

But Ewen proved ticklish, and when Keith got too near his armpit drew his arms down again with a yelp, squirming underneath him. 

That was another thing to explore, then, and Keith mapped out his chest and sides with light touches, seeing what aroused him, and what was too much. 

'Keith,' said Ewen presently in a plaintive tone, 'have pity on me.' He thrust his hips upwards to draw attention to that part of his body which Keith had so far neglected. 

Keith looked down at it, finding it as lovely as all the rest of him. 'I thought you would let me do what I wanted.' Although, if he had not already been so sated, he might not himself have had the patience for such a slow exploration. 

Ewen gave a growl of impatience. 'Yes, but within limits!' 

And Keith thought that if there had been room on the bed without falling off, Ewen might well have flipped them over and taken matters into his own hands. With a thrill, Keith found that he quite enjoyed the thought of that. 

'Very well, I'll have pity on you,' said Keith, smiling, and knelt between Ewen's legs, which he pushed apart. 

But he paused a while, for he had not, in his slow inventory, come to the lower part of Ewen's body yet. He looked at his thighs spread out before him, kissed the tanned and somewhat roughened skin at his knee, then proceeded inwards to the pale and sensitive skin of his inner thigh, which seldom saw the sun. Ewen drew in a breath when he kissed him there, and Keith could feel the muscle tense. He turned his nose into the curly red hair at his groin, lighter in colour than on his head, and drew in the scent of sweat and musk. And then, finally, he did take pity on Ewen. 

Keith had taken him in his mouth like this once before, but it had been at a moment snatched from the exigency of war, desperately yielding to a desire that he could hardly yet believe that Ewen shared. He had time now to fully appreciate it, perhaps even more so when his own desire was already slaked, for now he could share in that sympathetic emotion that comes of bringing another pleasure. Oh, how he loved this act: the feeling and taste of Ewen on his tongue, of sensing his reactions so directly. 

As Ewen, trembling and tense under him, came near to spending, Keith reluctantly took his mouth off him, for to keep it there might perhaps be taken as showing off, after Ewen's misadventure attempting the same thing. Instead, he finished him off with his hand, and had instead the reward of seeing his face as he reached that peak of pleasure, and gradually came down from it. 

Keith presently rose to rummage for an unused handkerchief in Ewen's open saddlebag, and finding one, gave it to Ewen. He stirred and took it, but seemed too mired in lassitude to do much more than wipe himself off and drop it to the floor. 

'Come to bed, Keith,' he mumbled. 

'Gladly, but one of us will fall off if we try to sleep on that thing,' said Keith, amused at the state to which he had reduced his lover. He moved the small table out of the way, preparatory to moving the two beds together. 

But the instinct of chivalry was apparently stronger than that of sleep, for Ewen rose from the bed to help him with the task. Once done, he lay down again with a sigh, pulling Keith down with him. 

Keith had not shared a bed with anyone for years. As a soldier, he had learned to fall asleep anywhere, but also to come alert at any disturbance, and Ewen's sprawling limbs provided such at several points in the night. His muddled mind would come awake, feel the warm naked body next to his own, and be reassured, partly by remembrance and partly by the smell of Ewen's body, which by now even the unconscious part of his mind knew so well. He would fit his limbs to the new configuration of Ewen's, and dig his face into Ewen's neck, and fall again into sleep. 

They began to wake in what must be the early morning, for it was still dark. Keith felt the first stirrings of renewed desire, for he was almost wrapped in Ewen's sleep-warm body, with his thigh pressed between his legs. But just as Keith was beginning to convey this idea to Ewen, he made a disgruntled little noise and sat up, reaching to the chair with his clothing and searching among it until he drew something out. 

He went over to the fireplace, holding a taper to the embers there and lighting the lamp with it. Keith squinted at the sudden light. 

Ewen looked at the object from his clothing, now revealed to be a watch, and sighed. 'I must to my duties,' he said regretfully. 'I am sorry, Keith—I had rather stay in bed with you.' 

And he would be left here, like a woman when her lover went off to his regiment. No, that was not fair, at all—but Keith felt a sharp sting of envy, that Ewen had his occupation and sense of purpose still, while he had none. 

Ewen pulled his shirt over his head, and Keith sat up. He might as well dress, too, and they did so in silence. 

Then Ewen turned to him. 'Keith. I have not asked you what your plans are—' 

'No. I—' But Keith could say no more, partly because his plans were vague at best, and partly because, with Ewen standing before him clad yet again in his aide-de-camp finery, he could not stomach sharing his doubts with him. To tell him, a victorious Jacobite, of what King George had done, and what it meant to Keith—and he remembered suddenly that humiliating scene in Luton, with Cumberland and the other commanders alleging that Ewen Cameron was trying to win him for the Jacobite cause. No, that was not fair, for their accusation had been utterly baseless, but…

'Keith, you need not tell me anything, except in your own time,' said Ewen carefully. He took a deep breath. 'You must know that if I can do you any service, you have only to ask. But—Keith, whatever you decide to do, I—I will love you. Even should you decide to follow your King to Hanover, if that is what your honour demands.' 

Keith stared at him, deeply moved. His thoughts of a moment ago seemed to him now rather small-minded. Had they not been through enough reversals of fortune together, that he could trust in Ewen's utter respect for him? And love—they had not spoken that word before, but…

Keith felt suddenly the cold shadow of some unknown fate passing over him, be it a future one, or one that might perhaps never come to pass, and knew that he must, without delay, tell Ewen that which Keith's natural reticence had not yet let him say. For who knew what might happen to either of them, still? 

This love which had come into his life unlooked for, unearned, and against Keith's own previous philosophy—for had he not struggled against his feelings for him?—was no longer something he could do without, for it had taken root deep within him, so deep that he thought it could never be torn out. Keith closed the distance between them and took hold of Ewen's hands, gripping them perhaps too hard. 

'Ewen,' he said urgently. 'I love you—I love you.' It was no longer difficult, rather, it was utterly necessary to him to say it before they were parted, and he might perhaps never get the opportunity again. 

Ewen's arms closed round him, holding him tightly, and he whispered it yet again into Ewen's neck. 

'So do I love you, Keith,' said Ewen seriously, when they had drawn apart again. 'But you look almost as though you had seen a ghost, or had a foretelling of some kind. What is it?' 

Ewen stood before him hale and strong, and Keith could hardly say what it was that had come over him. 

'You know I don't believe in premonitions,' said Keith, 'but—one or the other of us might so easily have died. Or may do so, still.' 

'Yes,' said Ewen, 'you are right. But there is one fate we have avoided, at least. I didn't tell you of it yesterday, but I'll do so now. On my way back from Luton at our last meeting, I came upon a Hanoverian scouting party and was captured. No, don't look like that—I had the good luck to be guarded by an officer of the Royals who had intended to defect to my side, and chose this opportunity to do so.' 

'Captain Campbell,' said Keith, nodding. 'I cursed him when I learned of it, but it seems I owe him something—for if Hawley had got his hands on you a second time...is that the fate we avoided, then?' 

Ewen smiled ruefully. 'No, not the one I intended to speak of—it seems there have been several.' And he told Keith of Lachlan and his mistaken belief that Ewen had been executed by Keith. 

'What!' exclaimed Keith. 

'I don't know how he came to believe that, but he swore on the iron that he would avenge my death, and kill you. That is the fate I meant. But happily, we found each other on the battlefield afterwards, and he saw his mistake.' 

'That's certainly an ill fate avoided,' said Keith, and shivered as that cold shadow seemed to pass over him again. 'But, as to how he was mistaken, I think I know.' He saw before him again that face and the expression on it before he gave the order to fire, which Keith thought he would never forget. 

'How, then?' 

'I _was_ forced to execute a man—but not you,' said Keith quietly. 'Hawley wished me to...prove my loyalty.' His mouth twisted. 'The man was a deserter who had been caught and sentenced by a court-martial, and I could not well object to it. He was a Scotsman, with red hair.' 

Ewen drew in a breath. 'So that is how…' 

'Yes.' 

'Was he defecting to our side?' 

'I cannot be sure, but I think he was simply deserting. He was a Presbyterian or Dissenter of some sort, I think, and they are not often Jacobites.' 

'No. Well, God rest his soul,' said Ewen seriously. 

They stood looking at each other for a while, and then Ewen said, 'Keith, this is our fifth meeting—if we take the prophecy seriously, we have no more fated ones. But I intend that we shoud make our own fate together. I must leave now, but let us set a place and time to meet, or at least to send a message there, if we cannot make it.' 

'Yes, let us meet in London,' said Keith, for he felt that he was now free of that curious paralysis of the mind which had held him for some days. He still did not know what he would do, but he would go to London and find out. 'I shall be staying at Stowe House—when would suit you?' 

'In five days' time? I should be back by then. And if not, I'll send a message.' 

'Yes.' Keith embraced him one last time, and on impulse, whispered in his ear, 'I cannot tell you more of it now, but I shall not be going to Hanover.' 

Keith thought he had known that for a while, though he had not fully admitted it to himself until now. When he drew back, Ewen was clearly trying to tamp down the joy he felt. 

'Oh, Keith! 'Tis not because—I mean, it's only because I'll have you closer to me,' he said, attempting somewhat confusedly not to come up against the sensitive issue of their allegiances. 

Keith smiled. 'Come, let us go—you said you were in a hurry.' 

'Yes, you are right.' They moved the beds apart, and went downstairs. 

Dawn was suffusing the eastern sky with rose when they parted, and Keith pulled in Triumph to watch Ewen Cameron ride away on that magnificent stallion whose temperament so little matched its rider's. 

Keith was still smiling as he rode up the long avenue of beeches. As if to match his mood, the sun rose, and its long slanting horizontal rays brought out the rich reddish colour of the dry beech leaves, that was still less rich than the colour of Ewen's hair, of which it could not help reminding him. But his lover was so much in his mind that it was not strange that everything should remind Keith of him. 

He had not thought it was possible to be so happy. 

As if that was not enough, the meeting with Ewen had shaken him out of his drifting state, and he now felt that he must go to London and, though he did not yet know what it would be, find out what purpose he could set himself to. He had already admitted that it would not be to go to Hanover. 

But it suddenly struck him that this decision was perhaps not as disinterested as it might have been. Ewen had not tried to influence him—he would never do such a thing—but Keith might still have been influenced by Ewen's presence and Keith's own feelings for him, and his wish to remain near him. That would never do—such a decision should be influenced only by considerations of honour and what it demanded, not by mere personal feeling. 

Keith sighed. Clearly he would need to think his decision over again. 

But for now, he had come up to the house. He handed Triumph to John and asked him to saddle Steady for him, and went up to pack his belongings and eat breakfast. Having thanked Mrs Edwards and left a tip for the maid who had served him, he went to the stable and found Masters, not John, holding Steady for him. 

'Are you leaving, Mr Keith?' he asked. 

'Yes—I'm going to London,' replied Keith. 

Masters nodded, then looked Steady over and said, 'He's not showy, but he looks solid. What happened to Felix?' 

'He broke a leg in Scotland, and I had to shoot him,' said Keith. ''Twas a pity. But Steady here—we found each other, after the first battle for London. I'd lost a horse, and he a rider.' 

'Well, I hope I'll see you in London, Mr Keith. Autumn should foal any day now.' 

'Yes, I'll stay at Stowe House. I hope the foaling goes well.' And Keith shook hands with his father's old servant, and rode off. 

The brilliance of the rising sun on that winter day shone on Ewen Cameron as well, and matched his mood no less. Keith was alive, and loved him. Those two facts were the source of the joy which bubbled up like a spring in Ewen's heart, that felt as though it would never run dry. 

Not since the early days of his betrothal to Alison Grant had he felt anything like this, but that had never come to fruition, for long separation had weakened their bond, until Alison had finally broken it. And besides, their relationship had never been consummated, as of course it could not have been, before marriage. Not like with Keith—Ewen flushed to think of what they had done together. 

That, he supposed, was the consolation of loving a man, for all the other difficulties in their way: that he need not concern himself over Keith's virtue, or risk a child being born out of wedlock. Ewen snorted at the thought of Keith's hypothetical virtue, for he was clearly more experienced than Ewen. He had to confess to some curiosity at his history, though he could not feel jealousy over things that lay in Keith's past. 

But such an indescribable joy it had been, to come together like that with no hesitation between them, as there had been that first time in London. For the heart and the body to be so united, and to have laughter as well, and freedom to speak of what was in his mind. 

Not complete freedom, of course—for Ewen was well aware that there had been hesitation in Keith's manner, and in his own, in one respect. His heart went out to Keith, for it was quite clear to Ewen that he was troubled, and no wonder. When they had first met, Ewen had admired him a great deal for those skills and that experience he had as an officer, which profession Ewen himself had been thrown into with no training and little warning. And now Keith could not wear his officer's uniform any more, not unless he changed his allegiance, or went overseas. Since he had no other profession, his position was much worse than Ewen's would have been, should his side have lost the war, since Ewen could simply have gone back to his estate at Ardroy. To be sure, there had been forfeitures after the Jacobite attempts of the Fifteen and the Nineteen, but the English could never truly control the Highlands, not even with their roads, and those forfeitures had often proved impractical to enforce. 

Ewen wondered whether anything had happened to shake Keith's loyalty, for his manner in telling Ewen that he would not go to Hanover had suggested that something lay behind it. But Ewen could not ask him about it—he simply had to hope that Keith would some day feel comfortable in confiding in him, and that meanwhile he had other friends to confide in. 

He could not help nursing deep in his heart a wish that he and Keith might someday stand as brothers in arms, on the same side. But of that, he knew, he must never breathe a word to Keith—most especially not since a suggestion, false as it had been, that Ewen had tried to influence Keith in such a way had helped to land Keith in gaol. 

But thoughts of these difficulties could not keep Ewen's mind troubled for long—he would meet Keith again in no more than five days! And as he caught up with Prince Charles' escort, now on the road towards Leighton Buzzard, he was smiling again. 

Indeed, his irrepressible smile was such that the Prince, resplendent on his white charger but looking rather preoccupied, nevertheless could not help but notice it. 

'Why, Ardroy, I believe you must have a sweetheart in these parts,' he said, and had the satisfaction of seeing his aide-de-camp blush and duck his head like a boy. 'Your leave was well spent, then.' 

'Yes, Your Royal Highness,' said Ewen, blushing still more, and praying he would ask no questions, for Ewen was no great talent at lies and evasion.


	3. Chapter 3

After his several days' rest in the stable, Steady had an eager step as Keith rode south from Buckingham. The morning sky, which had been so clear, was now softened with a thin layer of hazy cloud, but it was still a fine day. Flocks of sparrows were picking over the stubbled fields, in search of stray corn that had escaped earlier foragers. 

Keith was glad to be on the road, and glad even for the wind that swept across the landscape, cold as it was, and only partly hindered by the leafless trees and hedges. Perhaps its briskness would clear his mind, and help him think. 

He must now consider his impulsive words to Ewen, that he would not go to Hanover, and see whether they were indeed consonant with his honour and his commission. Keith wished that he might speak to some of his fellow officers about it, and he intended to do so, in London. But undoubtedly some would take service with the Stuarts, some would go to Hanover, and some perhaps take a commission in some other country—Keith must in any case consult his own conscience and make his own decision. 

King George had actively ordered his officers to break their paroles. This was the central fact on which he must base his decision—and fact he must consider it, since he had had it from St Clair himself. Would he have chosen to take service with a sovereign who had acted so dishonourably? No, certainly not. On this Keith felt himself to be on firm ground, for besides the insult to the officers' individual honour as gentlemen, which was considerable, he felt strongly that should the code that governed the behaviour of nations at war be eroded, barbarity and great suffering would threaten. 

But it was not a choice as to whether Keith would take service with him or not, for he already held a commission from King George, which worn and treasured piece of paper still rested in the pocket of his uniform coat, packed in his saddlebag. 

He took a deep breath and faced head-on the question of whether he had in fact done his duty, which he had not so far had the fortitude fully to consider. Certainly he had not distinguished himself in the battle, but if that were demanded, there were many officers who could not be said to do their duty. So that, perhaps, he could lay aside. 

But what of his actions after the battle? Ewen's tidings had made clear to him how complete the Hanoverian defeat had been: the King fled from the country, James Stuart on the throne already. And with that knowledge, there was nothing Keith could have done, given that he had been prevented from joining the retreat of the King's party, which had gone quickly to the coast and escaped. He could not have helped King George by staying to be captured. 

But here lay the rub: he had not known these things for certain, until Ewen told him. To be sure, the complete defeat at the battle itself, he had observed for himself, and thought himself experienced enough to trust that observation. But Keith was only a captain, and had not the full knowledge of the commanders in their councils. How could he have known that there was no hope for the war, though the battle was lost? Perhaps there were reinforcements on the way, ones he did not know about—though surely if there had been, they would have been told, for it might have made a world of difference for morale. 

The point remained. He had made one weak attempt to rejoin the King's party, and when that had failed, he had drifted away, first to Bedford and thence to hide away at Stowe House. He had, in fact, deserted, not unlike the man whom he had executed. That circumstances had later justified his actions, he could not use as a defence, for he had not known those circumstances at the time—instead, so far as he could tell, his actions had stemmed from loss of faith and demoralisation at the crushing defeat. 

As the situation was, it seemed very unlikely that any court-martial would ever convict him for these actions, but Keith's judgement of himself was keener and more painful than the legal punishment that he would never receive. And what would Ewen think of him, if he knew? 

He turned his face away from a cart that came towards him on the road, for he felt that he could not meet anyone's gaze at present. In fact, he was coming up on Winslow, and turned Steady from the road into a side track where he might have some privacy before riding through the town. Beneath the spreading bare branches of an oak tree, Keith dismounted and put his arm over Steady's withers, and for a moment leaned his head against the horse's warm bulk. But Steady only shifted and nosed at him in the hopes of a treat. 

Keith sighed. 'Yes, be glad that you are innocent of the concept of honour and care only for carrots,' he murmured, and procured such a treat for him from his saddlebag. 

While Steady contentedly crunched his carrot, Keith sat down on the dry leaves at the foot of the great oak, which must have seen the coming and going of monarchs during many hundreds of years of English history, and was as old, perhaps, as the oak tree that had hidden one of those kings from his enemies. And yet it cared nothing for them, but only for the rain and the sunshine and the slow, steady growth of its roots and branches. Keith leaned his head upon the rough bark, looking up at the wide branches and feeling small, and young. 

He got up and took out his uniform coat from his saddlebag, and from its inner pocket his commission. The paper was worn along the edges, and where it had been folded, the letters were scarcely legible. But he knew by heart what it said. 

_George the Second, by the Grace of God King of Great Britain, France and Ireland, Defender of the Faith. To Our Trusty & Welbeloved Keith Windham, Esq. We do by these presents Constitute and Appoint you Captain of a Company in Our First Regiment of Foot, commanded by Our Trusty & Welbeloved Col. James St Clair. You are therefore carefully and diligently to discharge the Duty of Captain by Exercising and Weldisciplining both the Inferior Officers and Soldiers of that Company, and We do hereby Command them to Obey you as their Captain, and you are to Observe and follow such Orders and Directions from time to time as you shall receive from your Colonel or any other your Superior Officer, according to the Rules and Discipline of War, in pursuance of the Trust hereby reposed in you. Given at Our Court at St James, this Twenty-Third day of January 1738, in the Eleventh Year of Our Reign. By His Majesty's Command, R. Walpole._

Those phrases burned in his mind now: _...the Trust hereby reposed in you._

Some might argue that since Parliament had assented to the coronation of James Stuart, Keith's commission was now void, since it was issued by King George as sovereign of Britain, which perhaps he de facto was no more. But Keith could not see James as anything but a usurper, and Parliament's supposed assent as given under the threat of military force. 

But even if Keith still considered his commission as valid, a commission was not for life—it could be sold out, and an officer could retire, or honourably go to serve another country, so long as he did not leave in the middle of a campaign. King George had left the country, and for Keith to go to Hanover was an active step. Would he then take that step? 

Keith looked down at the paper in his hands, which had defined so many years of his life, and slowly shook his head. No, he would not go. He had failed in his duty to the King, and felt the full shame of that failure. But the King had failed him first. 

Keith closed his eyes again, leaning back against the tree. He had made his decision, and felt lighter for it, though rather wrung out. To be sure it would not be the last difficult decision he had to make, but still, it was made, and he had, he thought, made it without any reference to his feelings for Ewen—at least he need have no second thoughts on that account. 

He let himself think of Ewen now, of his beloved face, his strong embrace. The thought was a comfort to him, even through his apprehension over what Ewen might think of his actions after the battle. 

Though his heart might be warmed by the thought of Ewen, still his body was growing cold, and Keith stood, stamping his feet to get the blood moving. As he mounted Steady again, a thought struck him, and he looked up at the oak tree again. Had not Ewen said it was a symbol of his clan? Smiling a little, Keith felt almost as though Ewen had been with him in spirit, through that difficult decision. 

Keith spent that night in an inn in Aylesbury. It was rather crowded, and there was no chance of a room of his own, but while the room's other occupants spent the evening in the conviviality of the dining room, he sat down by the simple desk to discharge a task which he had put off for too long. During his career, he had composed many letters to grieving parents, but never to ones whose son he had executed. 

_Dear Madam,_

_I will be plain, for fine Words could not soften the News that I must convey: your Son Thomas Moodie is dead. He was convicted of Desertion by a Court-Martial, and suffer'd the Punishment which the Articles of War specify for such an Act. I'll not offer my Condolences, for I think you might not wish to receive them from the Man who order'd the Firing Squad to shoot. With this Letter, I have discharg'd the Commission that he gave me, for his last Request was that the enclos'd Note should be sent to his Mother. I will allow myself the Wish that you have Friends and Family to give you what Consolation is possible._

_Your obedient Servant,_  
_Keith Windham, Captain_

It was clear to Keith why he had put this off—because he could not yet deal with the similarities between his own acts and those of the deserter he had executed. With a bitter twist to his mouth, he wondered whether he was justified in signing in the capacity of a captain. But his qualms would hardly matter to the grieving mother. 

Keith spent one more night on the road before he reached London. That city, when he entered it, seemed much the same as always, save for the Jacobite soldiers he had seen while passing through one of the outlying villages, presumably billeted there. But then, not all change might be seen on the streets. 

He entered Stowe House, and, very soon after his entrance, found Francis come to meet him. 

'Keith! You're alive,' he exclaimed, and took Keith's hand in his. 'I am so very glad to see you.' 

'And I am glad to see that you did not rush off to join a militia,' replied Keith, who was stung yet again by conscience, for failing to send word to his family. 

'Tell me, where have you been?' said Francis, and Keith gave him a version of events which was somewhat edited, especially when it came to the final battle. He hardly wished to suggest any distinction on his part, but neither did he want to delve into the sorry state he had been in afterwards. 

But Francis instead latched onto the mention of Ewen that Keith had given to explain his sojourn in gaol in Luton, and on that subject Keith did not mind elaborating. 

'When things are still so unsettled, I am very glad to hear of such an honourable Jacobite,' said Francis. 

'Indeed—he has become a true friend to me,' said Keith, attempting to keep his besotted emotions on the subject from showing, and hopefully succeeding. 'Well, you may meet him if you like, when he returns to town. But for now, I should speak to his lordship, if he is home.' 

'Yes, he is in his study—I'm sure he would wish to see you.' 

He did indeed, and Keith related the bare bones of his story a second time. 'But, sir, I am sure you know much more than me about the political situation, which is more relevant now than any details of lost battles. Will you tell me about it?' 

The Earl sighed and looked troubled. 'I'm no soldier, as you know, and in the face of military defeat I can put up no resistance, at least not at present. It may be different should King George contrive to return with enough force, but for now I think we must accept the new reality that has been foisted upon us. Above all I detest disturbance to this country, and I think if enough of us unite, we may be able to persuade King James not to make such changes as would threaten the present establishment. Although we must of course expect changes in the ministry and such.' 

Keith listened in silence, troubled himself. 'What has he done so far?' 

'His heir has converted, but he himself will not—this has caused much concern that he is like his father, which would indeed be a disaster. But I have heard him on the subject, and I was somewhat reassured—he has given his pledge to abdicate in favour of Charles as soon as the Prince has married a suitable Protestant wife and produced an heir, which, in turn, the Prince has promised to do as soon as possible. He has promised not to act against the Church of England, and in fact has taken a coronation oath to protect and defend it, in return for a certain amount of lightening of the strictures on Papists—but nothing threatening. He does not seem at all vindictive against former enemies of the House of Stuart, and has reassured investors in the National Debt.' 

'What of Parliament, sir?' said Keith. 

'I am relieved that he fully endorses a free Parliament. There is to be a re-election, but the issue of a Scottish Parliament is still unsettled—there are promises of such to his Scottish supporters, but you know it goes against powerful interests. No doubt his Irish supporters also want concessions, but there I think 'twould be difficult for him to act, for it would smack of Papist favouritism, and of course the economic interest against it is great.' 

Keith listened to more of the Earl's news, until he finally said, 'And what of you, Keith—what are your plans?' 

Keith had expected this question, and carefully said, 'I must speak to my fellow officers, and find out more about the situation in the Army, before I decide anything.' 

'That's certainly prudent of you. Oh, and your mother goes about to sound the waters and secure interest in her own way—she will hold a ball this Saturday, and has invited Prince Charles, among others.' 

This was so like his mother that Keith was momentarily speechless. 

'You should go to see her, by the way—I am sure she wishes to see for herself that you are unharmed,' said the Earl. 

Keith bowed, and said that he would do so. 

His mother was in her boudoir, which was quite warm with the fire that burned in the hearth, above which hung her large portrait of Francis as a beautiful young child. The physical likeness to her was striking. 

Lady Stowe rose from the delicate escritoire where she was presently penning a note, and greeted him in silver tones, graciously deigning to offer him her cheek. 'Keith! So you are back.'

'I am,' said Keith, dutifully kissing his mother's cheek, with its hint of rose perfume. He looked at her lovely face, which he had so adored as a child. 

'I am glad this upheaval is finally settling down—can you believe it, we could not get chocolate for love or money, for over a se'ennight!' She laughed, sitting down again and settling her sea-green silk gown about her. 

'I hear that you have already seized the opportunity to invite the new Prince to a ball,' said Keith sardonically. 

Only a hint of a raised eyebrow showed that she had heard his sarcasm. 'Of course—we must be forward in this new situation. And he is a...most presentable young man,' she said approvingly. 

'Yes—that, of course, is the important thing,' replied Keith drily. He knew he ought to restrain himself, but could not. 'And King George is hardly gone before you invite him into your home.' 

Now he had crossed a line, for she dropped her soft and melodic tone, in favour of a sharper one, which he had heard often enough in his youth. 

'Be sensible, Keith. If one wishes to advance one's position, one must create the opportunities for it, instead of clinging to some outdated loyalty which can only be a hindrance. If you had your way, I am sure you would have had me remain in poverty as a Colonel's widow, for your father left me little enough. I think you do not sufficiently appreciate the advantages and interest which your step-father confers on you, as well, and which you would never have had save for my second marriage.' 

Keith managed to school his expression into contriteness. 'I am sorry, mother,' he said, with a little bow. 

Somehow his mother had the ability to provoke him as no one else, this time perhaps more so because he could not deny the kernel of truth to her words: she had indeed made a good choice in the Earl, who had not only wealth and consequence, but a kind heart. 

Lady Stowe regarded him for a moment, as if judging the effect of her words, then gave a nod and returned to her usual dulcet tones. 'Indeed, I wonder whether you yourself have not made some useful connections. Tell me, who is that young Jacobite officer who came calling for you? He seemed most distressed when we had no news of you.' 

Keith nearly choked on the idea that he should have befriended Ewen to seek personal or political advantage. He took a few breaths before replying, 'Captain Cameron is a friend.' 

'And one you might do well to cultivate, I think. Well, I'll let you get settled and prepare for supper,' she said, dismissing him.

Keith bowed again, and she turned back to her escritoire. 

On the following day, Keith sought out a few of his fellow officers, to hear any gossip and news that might help him decide his course. As he had surmised, not a few had taken commissions with the Stuarts—one reason for this, besides remaining in England, was that promotion was easier to obtain when there were fewer officers, and the Stuarts held this out as an encouragement. Self-interest, of course, was a powerful motivation. 

But some had gone abroad, or intended to do so. Keith found that attitudes varied towards the issue that he himself considered to be the sticking-point: some agreed with him that King George had acted dishonourably, some held that it was a case of anything goes against rebels, and some shrugged their shoulders and avoided the subject. No one had news yet of the very pertinent question of King James' wishes with regard to the war on the continent. 

Keith need not fear for his personal safety, for such junior officers as he were hardly in danger from the new regime, if they did not continue to resist. Still, he felt rather odd as he called at the army headquarters at the Horse Guards building, where tartan-clad soldiers were now on guard, and enquired for St Clair—for he had learned that his former Colonel had gone over to the Stuarts. 

But St Clair was not available, and Keith resolved to seek him out another day, for he would dearly like to speak with him. He wondered, too, what had become of the men of his former company—was his young lieutenant Calvert still alive? And what of Lamb, that best of sergeants? 

On the day of his appointed meeting with Ewen, Keith stayed at home, for they had not set a time for it. Every servant who came his way set his heart to beating, in case they should bear the news that Ewen was here. But he schooled himself to be patient, for Ewen might have been delayed, or not able to obtain leave. 

At last, in the afternoon, a footman came to announce Ewen's arrival, and Keith had to control himself not to leap to his feet. 

Keith had little personal vanity, but he remembered with shame the shabby clothes he had been wearing at his last meeting with Ewen, and had accordingly resolved to do better. He had chosen a wine-red coat that his mother had remarked suited him, both the colour and cut, for he would be a fool to dismiss her judgement in the matter of fashion. This he had donned along with cream-coloured breeches and waistcoat, and a cravat which he had tied and re-tied in front of the mirror. 

Ewen was in similar aide-de-camp finery to the last time, but his eyes widened when he saw Keith. While much gratified at his, Keith hastily dismissed the footman, asking him to bring sherry and refreshments to the small drawing room adjacent to Keith's room. He felt that Ewen's gaze on him revealed rather too much. 

Unfortunately, they were intercepted on their way there by Lady Stowe, gliding down the hall. 

She eyed Ewen with appreciation. 'Will you introduce me properly to your friend, Keith?' 

Keith duly introduced them. Ewen bowed and kissed the Countess' extended hand, and said everything that was proper. 

'You are an aide-de-camp to the Prince, I hear?' said Lady Stowe. Keith had no notion of how she knew this, for he had not told her—but no social gossip eluded her for long. 

'Yes, my lady, that is so,' said Ewen. 

'Then you must come to my ball on Saturday, in his honour.' 

'I thank you for the invitation, my lady—I shall be honoured to attend, if my duties allow.' Ewen gave a little bow again. 'As I also am to meet Keith's family, for I owe him much.' 

Lady Stowe tilted her head in a gesture that was all charm. 'Is that so? My son is modest, and has not properly told me of his exploits.' 

'He saved my life,' said Ewen simply. 

'Indeed? That is a great service, to be sure. Keith, you'll come to the ball as well, won't you?' 

'Yes, mother,' said Keith dutifully, reflecting that his mother seemed to consider him a useful asset now that that he held the obligation of an aide-de-camp to the Prince. 

'But you must have much to talk of—I shall let you do so in peace.' She took her leave of them. 

As they closed the door to the drawing room behind them, Ewen turned a look on Keith which was so far from the look of polite admiration he had given Lady Stowe that Keith nearly lost his breath. 

'Keith, you look...very handsome.' 

Keith raised his eyebrows in disbelief. 'I am certainly not used to attracting more admiration than my mother.' 

Ewen laughed. 'I am not an impartial observer, I admit—the average man might judge differently.' 

'Every other man certainly would,' Keith muttered, but still, he could not quite hide his gratification. 

'I don't know what I had expected, but your mother is certainly quite unlike you, especially in her manner. And—is she a Jacobite?' He looked puzzled. 

'I'm afraid my mother has no allegiance but her own interest,' said Keith. 'But come, sit down.' 

He thought it best to put the table between them lest they should be tempted to improprieties. Ewen sat, and Keith poured him a glass of port, and offered him some of the almond cakes studded with dried currants, and the slices of Stilton cheese. 

'This is our sixth meeting,' said Ewen in a low voice. 'Can it be that we are free of the prophecy now?' 

'I certainly hope so,' replied Keith. He could not help but reach over the table to briefly clasp Ewen's hand. 

Then he drank a mouthful of his glass, for to his shame, he almost felt that he needed some of that liquid courage for the subject he was about to broach. 

'Ewen, I must speak to you of that which I could not, the last time we met. I must warn you that your good opinion of me might not...remain the same, when I have told you of my actions after the battle.' 

'I doubt that,' said Ewen quietly. 'But I am glad that you'll tell me about it, for I wondered how you had fared.' 

'Well, I'll begin with the easy parts.' Keith told him of the Duke of Bedford's regiment, and how he had been accepted again by his superiors. 'I admit, you gave me the idea for it, when you told me in Luton that Bedford and Leicester were rising for King George.' 

Ewen laughed. 'I must be an intelligence officer's nightmare—it seems that I never consider properly what my words might reveal. I had no idea you might use it that way! But I'm glad you could allay their false suspicions.' 

Keith smiled fondly at him, for he loved Ewen's open and generous nature. 

Then he sobered. 'You know already that Hawley forced me to execute that deserter. But he...said something else, as well.' 

The fact that King George had ordered his officers to break their paroles was none of Keith's doing, of course, but he still felt shame at it, almost as if he were complicit. When he had managed to divulge it, Ewen looked at him seriously. 

'Keith, I already know your opinion of such things, for you voiced it publicly in Edinburgh, and I respected you for it. But the last thing I should like to do is to disparage an allegiance which I know that you held in good faith, and perhaps still hold to some degree, though I know you said that you will not follow him to Hanover…' 

Keith had to smile at his careful words, for it was clear that he was trying his best to navigate the political shoals lying between them. 'You may voice your opinion of his dishonourable act, if you like—I shall take no offence, for I share it.' 

'Well, no need for me to say it—you can guess it, I think,' said Ewen. 

'And yes, this is indeed why I will not go to Hanover.' Keith sighed. 'I blamed Handasyde for the affair, when we were in Edinburgh—and of course it was on his initiative. But the King, when he learnt of it, should have taken steps to undo it, and apologised to the officers and to those who held their paroles. And finding that he did not do this, but actively made the matter worse—' Keith made an inarticulate noise, and turned away. 

When he turned his gaze back, Ewen was looking at him with great compassion. 'Keith, I feel for you—what a thing to learn of the sovereign whose commission you hold. But so far you have said nothing which lowers my opinion of you, but only that which raises it. Leaving his service must have been a difficult decision to make, and I respect you for making it.' 

'Thank you. But my story is not finished.' Grimly, Keith detailed his actions during and after the battle, striving to keep to facts. 

He then summed up his own judgement of his actions. 'I think 'tis undeniable both that I did not do my utmost during the battle, and that I should have done more to rejoin the King's party after the battle, or at least done more to find out for certain that I could do no more to aid him. Instead, I...drifted with no definite objective, until I found myself at Stowe House. In short, I deserted.' Keith gave a grimace which might have been a bitter smile. 

Ewen had listened to him with great attention. Now he said slowly, 'You hold yourself to a high standard, Keith. To have lost faith in the honour of your commanders, and yet still demand of yourself that you should do your utmost for them.' 

'But I still held my commission,' protested Keith. 

'Nevertheless. I cannot judge you for it, though I understand why you feel this way—I would judge myself for such actions, as well. But 'tis easy to judge oneself more harshly than one would judge others.' 

'And I used to think myself such a cynic,' muttered Keith. 

'You, a cynic?' said Ewen, in great astonishment. 'To be sure, sometimes you speak in jest, or with irony, but had you been truly cynical, I think I would never have come to love you as I do. One does not have to scratch the surface very much to see how deeply honourable you are, or how thoughtful.' 

Keith turned away, flushing. And he had thought Ewen so idealistic, when he had first met him—it was disquieting to realise that they perhaps had more in common in that way than he had thought. For he knew now that there were not a few officers who in truth cared nothing for King George's breach of honour. 

'And I appreciate how difficult it must be to speak of all this to me, a Jacobite, though I am your lover,' continued Ewen quietly. 'I shall endeavour to be worthy of your trust.' 

Keith again reached across the table to clasp his hand. 'You already are. And how do you fare? We have been speaking only of my troubles.' 

'Indeed, I do have some troubles of my own,' said Ewen, sighing. 

'How so?' said Keith. 

'I suppose 'twas rather silly of me, but I had somehow thought—well, not _thought_ , for I had not truly considered the matter—that once King James was on the throne, things would be…' 

'A perfect paradise on Earth?' said Keith, with only a very small hint of irony. 

'You may laugh at me if you like,' said Ewen, looking a abashed. 

'You know I will not.' 

'As the Prince's aide-de-camp, I have attended him in councils, and have sometimes heard...I'll not mention names, but...I had not pictured the affairs of a kingdom as being conducted so like a cattle-deal! That men's allegiance should be for sale, and that it should be deigned to be bought—' 

Keith did not smile, but felt a great tenderness for him. 'You have never seen this before? I should be very surprised if it does not happen in the Highlands.' 

'Oh—I'm sure it does, but perhaps I have been too naive to see it, or not had the opportunity. Lochiel handles politics, not a sept chieftain like me. But not all clans hold together like we Camerons do—I know the Frasers have had great strife over the clan leadership, for instance.' 

'You tell me no specifics,' said Keith. 'But I suppose it depends upon how allegiance is bought. Some such deals can indeed be sordid. Others might not perhaps be bad—consider that they could be a way of ensuring that parts of the country, or other legitimate interests, are not neglected. But I'm not a politician. I am only a junior officer—or was, at least—and have never moved in such high circles as you do now.' 

Keith hesitated, then continued, 'Does it make you question your own allegiance?' 

Ewen sighed. 'I had heard the corruption of Government criticised before—elections being bought, and such matters. I had supposed 'twould be different under the Stuarts, but I suppose I was naive. Perhaps it is different—I cannot compare, for I don't know how it was under Hanover. No, I am still a Jacobite, but I will speak my mind if I see things that I consider wrong.' 

Keith wondered how long he would remain the Prince's aide-de-camp, if he did so. 'At least you have nothing to be ashamed of when it comes to their military conduct.' 

Ewen continued, 'No, that's true, and very generous it is of you to own it, too. And I don't mean to give the impression that 'tis all bad, certainly not. I have heard the King himself speak out against corruption, and I understand that bad practices take time to root out, as well. But...what gives me the most concern is that Scotland's independence as a nation, which the Prince himself declared when he first came to London, does not seem certain after all. He said then that elections would be held to both Parliaments, but there is delay, and it seems that powerful interests here in England are against it.'

Ewen raised his head, and though he wore no broadsword here in London, but only a court sword such as he had worn in Edinburgh, Keith saw the flash of fighting spirit in his face. 'We fought for that, almost as much as for King James. I do believe that the King wants it, but…' 

'I am sorry, Ewen,' said Keith quietly. 'But the issue is not decided, I think?' 

'No, indeed. King James would never have been on the throne now had not Scotland risen for him, and most of the clan chiefs and Lowland nobles are doing all they can to influence him now.' 

'I confess I had no very definite opinion on the matter before I met you,' said Keith, 'but for your sake, I hope they succeed.' 

'Oh, Keith.' Ewen smiled at Keith, rather dazzling him. 'I thank you for that.' 

Under the influence of that smile, Keith lowered his voice and ventured, 'On quite another matter—do you have your own room?' 

Ewen quite took his meaning. 'Alas, I do not! I share one with Alan—a cousin of mine.' 

'Perhaps we might take a room somewhere, for a night?' Keith murmured. 

'Yes, indeed! The night of the ball, perhaps? We might slip away, when it grows late.' 

'Yes, that might do. For now, I must prepare for supper—we have guests, and I am expected to be there.' 

Ewen stood, but gave him a look that said he would very much like to take leave of him with more than words.


	4. Chapter 4

As he left Stowe House, Ewen was quite relieved that the tie between them was strong enough that they could speak of such sensitive matters together without fear of offence. Truly, the time was long past since they had considered each other enemies—and now that Keith had left the Elector's service, they were not even enemies in a formal sense anymore. Ewen could not help but be glad that he had done so, though it could not have been an easy choice. 

As for Ewen's misgivings over the political situation, he had spoken of them to Archie, who had counselled him to patience, and to trust that Lochiel and the other clan chiefs were doing all that they could to influence the King. But Keith had other perspectives, and Ewen would certainly consider his words. 

Ewen kept Onyx under a tight rein on the busy streets, so that the black stallion would not get some fool notion into his head—truly his temper was tiresome. But Ewen would let him stretch his legs soon, for the Prince was attended by another of his aides-de-camp tonight, thus allowing Ewen to ride out to Barnet where many of the Camerons, including his Ardroy men, were billeted. 

As he emerged from the smoky atmosphere of London, he saw that the sky was clear, and the road lay straight before him under the moonlight. Only a very little encouragement was needed, and then Onyx was in a gallop. Ewen laughed for joy in the cold wind, for once in complete harmony with the powerful stallion. He had his compensations, to be sure. 

The Ardroy tenants were at their supper when he arrived, and Ewen was provided with a plate of it as well. More of them came from the adjacent building when they heard that he was there, until the room was crowded with them: Neil and Lachlan beside him; old Donald who had lost his left arm in the last battle but survived, and had it neatly amputated by Archie; dark-haired Morag and her husband John, who had been married earlier that year. Ewen could not help but smile, feeling more at home here with them than in the King's halls. 

'Tell me, how do you fare?' he asked in Gaelic. 

From the various replies he gathered that they were warm and well enough fed, and very glad to be so after the marching and battles, though some (mostly the young men) were growing bored. Ewen asked whether they would like guard duty, where they could perhaps see the King himself, and some said that they would. 

'May we have some paper for letters?' asked Lachlan. 'Some have asked me would I write to their families at home for them, that _bana-mhaighstir Mairead_ can help them read.' 

'That's a good thought,' said Ewen. 'You shall have some tomorrow, and we will make a packet of them and send them together.'

'Mac 'ic Ailein,' said Neil, looking serious. 'There is another matter. I must tell you that we are worried for our homes, for we have heard that the Sìol Diarmaid are in arms for the Elector, and greatly fear that they will go out from Argyll and burn and plunder our houses and lands, now that we are not there to protect them. Especially since we are fighting for King James.' 

'Yes, I quite see that,' said Ewen, himself serious now. 'The King has sent emissaries, and Lochiel made sure that one of them was Torcastle, to look after the Cameron interests. They are in hopes that when MacCailein Mor learns that King James is already on the throne, he will stand down, so that no blood needs to be shed. And in any case, no matter the feuds in the past and the rivalry in the present, remember that there have not been any serious raids for many years. They are our neighbours, and while they will gladly try to set their lawyers on us to expand their lands, I think they will not risk turning fire and sword on defenceless women and children and old men. For they know that we would return blow for blow, and they do not wish to live like that, no more than we do.' 

His tenants had listened to him intently, and looked somewhat reassured. Ewen prayed that his words were true—he believed so, and it was what Lochiel had thought. But it would be a high price to pay, if they were not. 

There was a silence, as they all thought of those they had left at home. 'When shall we return to Ardroy, then?' said Morag finally, her hand resting on her belly, which was just beginning to show the curve of the child that had kindled there, in the midst of war. 

There was a general murmur of agreement, for evidently she had asked what many of them wished to know. 

'I do not know exactly,' said Ewen. 'But 'tis winter still, and not so bad, I think, to be paid in coin by the King for staying warm under a roof, and fed besides. I know that you must wish to be home for the spring planting, and I'll speak to Lochiel of it. Perhaps we can find a transport by ship.' 

'I'd rather walk there on my own two feet,' muttered one of the men. 

Ewen remembered Keith's words about the misery of troop transports. 'Perhaps not, then—but for the wounded, that might be necessary, if they cannot ride on wagons.' 

Now that they had addressed the serious issues, there was small talk, and Ewen was asked for stories of serving the Prince. But then he turned to Neil. 'Will you give us a song, perhaps?' 

For Neil, besides being Ewen's piper, had a good voice and a large store of songs, learnt from his father and from other Highland musicians. 'Surely,' he said. 'And we can sing of new glories instead of old ones, now.' 

He stood, and in the soft candlelight began to sing of hopes that had rekindled after old defeats, of the flash of swords in sunlight, of battles won, and won again. 

There was a hushed appreciative silence after he had finished, and then the crowded room burst into whistles and clapping. Neil, smiling, gave way to their requests for another song, and then another, and then they were all joining in, in one of the rousing choruses that made it difficult to keep one's foot from tapping. 

It was late before Ewen rode back to London, rather wistfully longing to be back at Ardroy. 

On the day of the ball, Ewen attended his Prince during a rather miserable afternoon, standing almost unnoticed in a corner while the Prince quarrelled with Lord George Murray, who addressed him in terms that Ewen thought rather unfit for the heir to the throne of England, Scotland and Ireland. The Prince, on his part, replied with an acrimony that made Ewen rather uncomfortable. Serving him as closely as he did, Ewen had begun to see that he was not always the smiling and gracious scion of royalty that Ewen had first seen—but then, such behaviour must be difficult to maintain at all times, especially under such provocation. 

Still, Ewen could not help but agree with Lord George when it came to the substance of the argument—though he doubted his methods of persuasion. 

When Lord George had left, the Prince took a deep breath, then sat down at his desk and scribbled a note. 'Would you take this to the Duke of Perth, _s'il vous plait_?' he said to Ewen. 

'Surely, Your Royal Highness,' replied Ewen. 

He took the note, but hesitated. 

'Yes?' said the Prince impatiently, standing up. 

'I wished only to say that Scotland's independence as a nation is important to me, too.' Ewen found that his heart was beating fast, but he went on, 'I fought for that, as well as for you.' 

'Will you quarrel with me, as well?' exclaimed the Prince, and the expression that had smoothed from his face after Lord George's departure began to return. 

'Quarrel, my Prince?' said Ewen earnestly, then continued quietly, 'No—never. I put my trust in you.' 

Their eyes met, the warm Southern brown and the blue, and they stood so for a moment. 

'Then trust that I am doing my best,' said the Prince finally, in a quiet voice that matched Ewen's own. 

'I will, my Prince.' 

And Ewen, released from the Prince's gaze, thought that he had spoken out, as he had told Keith he would—and perhaps done better by it than had Lord George Murray. 

Returning from his errand with a reply from the Duke of Perth, the Prince's mood seemed more like his usual one. 'You'll accompany me to the ball tonight, Ardroy?' 

'Yes, Your Royal Highness.' 

'We must do our duty for the nation and dance with formerly Whig ladies,' he said, with a smile. 

And indeed, at the ball the Prince was all charm and grace, though he paid no lady more attention than another. Whatever his faults may have been, he did not spend his time chasing women—though he would have to find one soon that would please the nation. 

Ewen wore the amber satin he had worn at Holyrood, for luckily it had come down to London along with his other possessions. Aired and pressed, it would do service again, for he had not sufficient funds to buy himself unlimited court finery, nor the time for it, either. He, no more than the Prince, favoured any of the ladies more than another, though he found himself with plenty of partners and strove to please them, for that was surely his duty tonight. 

Lochiel had excused himself from the ball, citing his wound from the battle of Huntingdon, but Lady Lochiel was there, currently speaking with Lady Stowe. She felt herself of no use on the battlefield of war, but on the social one, she came into her right. 

But the young Lady Ogilvy, who had stood with drawn sword when King James was declared at the mercat cross in Coupar Angus, danced with her equally young husband Lord Ogilvy, the heir to Airlie, and neither seemed to have eyes for anyone else. 

Ewen strove to remember the names of the London society that he was introduced to, but feared he would forget half of them. He had seen Keith upon entering the ballroom, for his gaze could not help but be drawn to him, but they had only nodded and exchanged a small smile. 

But, having bowed to his partner after a sprightly rigadoone and finding himself quite thirsty, Ewen took a glass of wine and joined Keith, who currently also had no partner, at the side of the room. 

'Dancing suits you,' remarked Keith. 

'That's kind of you to say,' said Ewen. 'I was drilled in it in France, so thoroughly that it seems I will never forget the steps, though it has been years. You look lovely, by the way.' The music was loud enough that he felt he could allow himself this compliment, if he kept his voice low. 

'This coat belongs to Francis, my half-brother—I have no such court finery myself, and luckily we are of a size,' said Keith, with a wry smile. 'He wanted to meet you, by the way.' 

'I should be delighted,' replied Ewen. 

But instead it was the Prince who came over to them when the next dance was over. 'Captain Windham, is it not? I am glad to see you two such good friends, after your captivity and Ardroy's—it bodes well for the country, that you should harbour no ill will towards each other.' 

Ewen thought he must have a greatly practised memory for people, to remember Keith when he had only seen him as a parole prisoner in the Highlands —it must be quite useful to him. But of course, Ewen had told him of the affair in Luton, which might have jogged his recollection. 

Keith bowed. 'Yes indeed—honour and friendship may be found on both sides the political divide.'

Ewen happened to see the expression on Lady Stowe's face as her elder son was addressed by the Prince, and smiled inwardly. 

After further duties on the ballroom floor—though he found himself quite enjoying the dancing, as well—Ewen was presented to Viscount Aveling, Keith's young half-brother, who seemed quite disposed to like him, and as Ewen felt likewise, they got along very well, with Keith looking on with a small, happy smile on his face. 

And later, when the ball was drawing towards its end, they both slipped out separately, changed into everyday clothes, and made their way through the nighttime London streets to a inn down by the docks, where, they hoped, no one would notice, or care about, two men sharing a room.

* * *

Keith went again to Army headquarters the following Monday, to seek out St Clair. A small smile was playing round his mouth, for he was remembering the previous day, when his mother had approached him and asked why had he not told her he was on speaking terms with Prince Charles? Certainly she had not expected this of her elder son, whom she was not used to think of as a social asset—though to be honest, Keith had hardly expected to be addressed by him, either. Then his smile deepened until he must look quite besotted, for he was thinking upon his night with Ewen. 

But as he approached the steps of the Horse Guards building, his smile faded, and was replaced with a small frown, for though he was seeking the interview with St Clair, he was quite nervous. 

St Clair proved to be in, and would receive him. 

'Colonel?' said Keith, with some hesitation, entering the room where his former commanding officer sat behind a desk, covered with papers. 

'Captain Windham,' said St Clair, using Keith's former rank from force of habit, then made a small rueful grimace. 'Let us dispense with rank for now. I'm glad to see you, Windham—and glad that you survived the battle.' 

'And I to see you, sir. Have you news of what remains of my company?' 

St Clair moved a few stacks of paper until he found the right one, and handed Keith a sheet of paper. 'Here is the muster roll.' 

Keith read down the line of names, and let out a sigh of relief that Sergeant Lamb was still alive...and Corporal Cooper, that was good news, but there were a number of names he could not see. But perhaps some might have deserted, besides those who had died in the battle. 'What of Lieutenant Calvert?' he asked. 

'Wounded,' said St Clair. 'He will live, I think, but 'tis not yet clear whether he will be invalided out.' 

'Thank you, sir,' said Keith, handing the paper back. 

'Do you come to rejoin the regiment?' asked St Clair. 'You would be most welcome to have your former place back.' 

'I come,' said Keith carefully, 'to speak with you, that I might better decide my course. I have spoken to some of my fellow officers, but...I find that the choice is not easy.' 

'No.' St Clair's gaze was sympathetic. 'Well, what would help you decide?' 

That sympathy in his eyes made it easier for Keith to speak. 'Sir,' he said, hesitating, 'how could you do it? After a whole lifetime—please do not take it as an accusation, I only wish to know what—' 

He had seen that guarded look in St Clair's face before, when he had spoken to him of the officers forced to break their parole. 'No,' said Keith, 'I beg your pardon, I have no right to ask you such a thing.' 

St Clair sighed, looking down at his clasped hands on the desk. 'No,' he said, looking up again, 'you have no right to it, but I can see that your mind is in considerable turmoil over this. I will tell you somewhat of my history, though I don't know whether it can help you.' 

He was silent for a while, as if pondering how to begin. 'The St Clairs are a Jacobite family, or so they were traditionally—my father was firmly in the Stuart interest, and my eldest brother...well, I have had my differences with him, that were not really of a political nature, but no need to go into that now. Suffice to say that he served with Marlborough, but when the Fifteen broke out, he joined the rising, with my father's full support, though my father was not out himself. I was in the 3rd Foot Guards then and had just purchased my captaincy, but I was on fire to throw that over and join the rising myself.' 

Keith, listening intently, asked 'Why didn't you, sir?'

'Because my father forbade me. The family must have some insurance against defeat, after all. And indeed, the rising failed, and my brother fled overseas and was attainted. The family estates would be lost, when my father died. So he disinherited my brother—not, of course, over the attainder, for that should hardly have gone over well with Government—but there were other issues, which I will not go into. And I was now the heir, untouched by treason. I saw indeed the wisdom of my father's plans, though I was ashamed not to have acted on my convictions.' 

St Clair took a drink from the glass on the table. 'But thirty years have passed since then. That's a long time, and I had become quite reconciled to the Hanoverian rule, and indeed, I took active part in it. I have served in Parliament since '22. And when I heard of the rebellion, I thought it a foolhardy attempt that could only bring misery on its authors, and on everyone who joined it.' 

He spread his hands, and said ruefully, 'And here I am, serving the Stuarts as I ardently wished to do at twenty-five, but last year had as little mind to doing as taking service with France.' 

'Why, then, did you do it?' asked Keith quietly. 

'Yes, that's the rub, isn't it? I suppose, for me, 'twas not so much a matter of whether I would serve King George or King James, as whether I would serve Britain or not. I have no wish to go overseas to Hanover—I have been with this regiment for many years. I have come to care for it, and do not wish to see it in potentially incompetent hands. And also, if I am to be entirely honest, I wish to keep the family estates. There, those are my reasons in all their flawed human glory.' 

'Thank you,' said Keith solemnly. 'You have not asked me this, but I shall of course not pass on what you have said.' 

'I did not think you would,' said St Clair. 'But Windham, let me ask you: from what I know of you, you have no estate or other ties to keep you in Britain, and you are a young man still. If you find it so difficult to let go of your allegiance, why do you not go to Hanover?' 

Keith turned away his gaze. 'I could not. When I heard that the King had ordered those officers to break their paroles…' He shook his head. 'I believe that's when I first began to have my doubts.' 

'Ah. Yes, I remember that you asked me about that, before the battle.' St Clair sighed. 'I agree that it was ill done. But with age and long service, I suppose I have become inured to disappointment over the occasional...flaw, in my commanders.' 

'You have never disappointed me, sir,' said Keith quietly. 

St Clair looked startled. 'I thank you for that, Windham. Well, I don't know whether I have helped you—the decision must be yours in the end, regardless of other men's reasons.' 

'Yes, of course. I must think on it further, though I am very grateful for what you have told me.' Keith hesitated, but then decided that he must be honest. 'There is one thing...since you have offered to take me back, I think I should perhaps tell you somewhat of my actions after the last battle, if it should change your mind.' 

He related them briefly, not sparing himself. 

When he had finished, St Clair was regarding him keenly under his bushy grey brows. 'Windham, you are not a Papist, and I am not a priest, to give you absolution.'

Keith flushed. 'I only wished to—'

'Yes, I see. But this time of transition has been confusing for everyone, and I've no wish to pass judgement over you. I know that you are a brave man—you proved that at Fontenoy, if nothing else. But that's not the main reason that I would welcome your return to the regiment. When you came into this room, your first thought was to ask after the men of your company, and believe me, that is not something all officers would do. _That_ is why I would welcome you back.' 

Keith, taken aback, stared at him. 'I thank you,' he said at last. 'And I'll let you know my decision soon.' 

He stood, and took his leave. 

As Keith got out of the hackney-coach at Stowe House, he felt himself rather in need of some time to think, and in no way did he feel ready to face his family. So he went to the stables instead—Steady must need exercise, regardless. 

He rode east along White Chapel Street, with Steady's hooves clopping on the cobblestones, and turned north along Dog Row towards the hamlet of Bethnal Green. The weather had turned cold again, and the clods of earth lay hard and frozen on the fields round the city. Though the sun had in most places managed to melt the frost of the January morning, no one would call its weak rays warm. 

But Keith did not notice, for he was sunk deep in thought. He had known almost nothing of St Clair's history, save that he was a Lowland Scot, for his colonel was a rather private man. Keith felt honoured that St Clair had been so forthright with him, a mere captain to whom he certainly did not owe any such thing. And he could not help but be deeply gratified at his commanding officer's praise of him, which carried all the more weight coming, as it did, from a man he himself respected so much. 

Well, it was time to face his dilemma head on. Accepting a commission from King James, which he had earlier rejected with such instinctive revulsion, appeared after his talk with St Clair to be something that he might, after all, seriously consider. He could even admit that it was on some level what he wanted, for the same reason that St Clair had given for wishing to stay with his regiment. He knew the men who served under him, and felt a responsibility towards them—Lamb, who had taught him so much; Calvert, who had still so far to go; and the private men whom he did his best to shape up into competent soldiers and protect from the vagaries of the sometimes poor army supply. 

That, surely, was not a poor reason—but what of Ewen's role in his decision? It was undeniable that his relationship with Ewen had softened his resistance to Stuart rule—Ewen had shown him, by example, that a Jacobite could be an honourable and admirable man, and his fellow officers' reactions to Ewen had shown him some of the flaws in the Hanoverian attitude. 

Had it been only that, there would have been little to object to. But to consider taking a commission from King James because he was head over heels in love with a Jacobite—that still stuck in his craw. Keith felt himself flush with shame, at the mere thought. 

As if mocking him, the raucous noise of some bird roused him from his inward thoughts, for so absorbed was he that he had let Steady have his head, and paid little heed to the road. Luckily it was not much trafficked. 

Keith looked up at the parliament of rooks which sat in the ash tree nearby, settling and re-settling their wings and cawing sociably at each other, for they had not meant to address Keith. The sun, which was sinking towards the horizon, set their handsome black beaks and feathers to gleaming. 

Keith turned his horse about, taking the same road back, for the temperature was sinking along with the sun, and it was no time to explore new country lanes. His mind did not long remain occupied with his surroundings, but fortunately for him, Steady paid more attention. 

He still felt uneasy about the wider political situation. The Stuart name carried with it connotations of the tyranny of kings, of Papist rule, of suppression of liberties. But many years had passed since 1688, and who could say how they would rule now? They certainly would not find it easy to heedlessly to impose their own will upon the country, and perhaps they would not try, for the concern that Ewen had brought to him—that King James was ready to purchase the allegiance of influential people with various concessions—was the very thing that Keith's stepfather regarded as a good sign, and Keith could not help doing so as well. His family would certainly consider it a prudent and reasonable decision, if he went back to his old regiment. 

In fact, his own self-respect and pride were the only measures by which he could truly judge his decision—honour, he felt, did not really come into it, now that he had decided that his allegiance to King George no longer held. Was it only pride that stood in the way of this decision, then? 

Keith smiled to himself. Put that way, perhaps he could sacrifice a little pride to happiness. The choice he had made in the jail at Luton, to set aside the distrust that his earlier life had sown in him, and lay his happiness in Ewen's hands, had been the right one, for he knew in his bones that Ewen would never play friend or lover false. They could never wed, but nevertheless, for the sake of the commitment they had, Keith would bend his proud head, and take service with the Stuarts—for the alternative was to find himself some other profession, which he did not want to do, or to go overseas, and perhaps never see him again. 

Now that the decision was made, Keith felt that he breathed lighter, for it had taken a load off his mind. 

They arrived back at White Chapel Street, and Keith turned Steady right, towards the city and the sunset that glowed a sullen red, filtered through the smoke from the coal fires that kept London's many households warm. He did not know whether Ewen would be in, but he rode to the building where he and not a few other of the Highland officers were quartered. 

Upon the steps, he happened to encounter Dr Archibald Cameron, on his way out. 

'Captain Windham,' said he, politely granting him that rank which he did not at the moment truly have. 

'Dr Cameron,' replied Keith. 'You do not happen to know if Ardroy is in?' 

'He will be back late, as I know,' said Dr Cameron, 'but you may leave a note with the concierge, if you wish.' 

'Thank you, I will,' said Keith. 'Good evening, sir.' 

Keith indeed left a note for him, to the effect that if Ewen should be free tomorrow evening, Keith would be honoured to sup with him at the Three Feathers inn, this being the phrase agreed to between them for an assignation at the inn they had used the last time. 

At supper that evening with his family, Keith broke the news of his return to his old regiment in as casual a manner as he could, not wishing to draw attention to it. The Earl congratulated him, and his mother asked after his chances of promotion, to which Keith replied that he would undoubtedly have advanced in seniority, but did not expect any immediate change in rank.


	5. Chapter 5

The next morning, he wrote a letter to St Clair and sent a footman to deliver it. 

_Dear Sir,_

_I must begin by tendering my Thanks for your Kindness in taking the Time to address my Concerns today, tho' you undoubtedly had many pressing Duties. I have decided to accept the Offer you held out to me—please let me know when I should report for Duty._

_Your obedient Servant,  
Keith Windham_

In the evening, having received a positive reply to the note he had left Ewen the day before, Keith went with beating heart to the inn. It lay down by the docks, frequented by merchants and passing travellers, and ought to afford them privacy enough, especially as they arrived separately. 

Keith knocked on the door, and at Ewen's reply, opened it. Only when he had closed and locked it did they embrace, and Keith found himself pressed up against the door being most enthusiastically kissed. 

'I'm glad to see you, too,' Keith said, when their mouths parted. 

Ewen looked abashed, then smiled, drew back and whimsically bowed. 'Captain Windham—I am very pleased to meet you again.' 

Keith snorted in amusement. 'Yes, that fact did not escape my notice. And I shall soon be Captain Windham again in truth.' 

He had not meant to say it like that—had, in fact, not been sure how to say it, but—too late, now. 

Ewen drew in a breath. 'Keith—you—' He seemed uncertain of how to continue. 

'I will go back to the Royal Scots,' said Keith, to make it entirely clear that he would not be attaining that rank by going overseas. 

'Oh, Keith!' The joy shone through in Ewen's face, before he tried to suppress it somewhat. 

'I will,' continued Keith, 'take a commission from—from King James.' It was the first time he acknowledged him King, and it was remarkably difficult to say, no matter that he had tacitly owned it already, when he made his decision. 

Ewen was looking at him more seriously now. 'That cannot have been an easy decision. Keith, I will not deny that this brings me great joy, but please believe me when I say that it does not spring from any—any sense of political triumph, at all, for I have always respected your allegiance. I am happy for the utterly selfish reason that I'll have you closer to me.' 

'And that,' said Keith, smiling at him and reaching out to take his hands, 'is ultimately why I stayed, when I might otherwise have taken service in the Low Countries. I tried at first to make the decision without reference to you, fearing to be unduly influenced. But you have influenced me, and I cannot deny that. First, you have shown me, by example, that Jacobites were not what I at first imagined them to be.' 

Ewen looked entirely gratified at this. But Keith went on, 'But then, as you have said, there is the utterly selfish reason that I wish to be near you. Had honour bid me go to Hanover, I might have sacrificed my happiness for that. But, when nothing stands in the way save a little pride—well, I suppose I can swallow that.' 

'For me?' said Ewen softly. 

'Yes, of course for you.' 

Ewen smiled and looked at him in a sort of wonder, then stepped closer to express his emotions in a language not of words. And Keith eagerly complied, for they must make the most of their time in this little half-way shabby room, hidden from the world. 

Having divested him of coat and waistcoat, Ewen's hands had found the bare skin beneath Keith's shirt, and were now greedily venturing into his breeches. It would have been easy to let matters take their natural progression, and to fall without thought onto the bed together, but Keith murmured, 'Wait.' 

Ewen reluctantly drew his hand out. 'Yes?' 

The soft light from the candle on the bedside table showed his intent gaze and parted lips; his mussed hair, half out of its queue; and his even more dishevelled clothing. Keith's heart gave a thump in his chest at the sight of him, standing tall and waiting attentively to hear what Keith would say. 

'Ewen. I don't know if this is something you wish to do, but—have you considered...sodomy?' Keith used the word deliberately, to invoke the full weight of the consequences they would risk. 

Ewen flushed. 'I have never done it, and I don't know what it would be like. But you are more experienced than I, and if—if you wish to do that to me, I trust you to do it.' 

Keith smiled. 'You mistake me—I would not suggest that, unless you had expressed a wish for it. No, I meant the other way round.' 

For Keith, having conquered his pride in the one matter, had decided to do so in another, as well. He knew well how it would appear to the world: that he should bend over for a man who had taken part in his own crushing defeat. But the world, he trusted, would not know it, and why should he not have this, when he so fervently desired it? 

Besides, in a literal sense, one did not have to bend over for it. 

'Oh,' replied Ewen. 'Well, you should have to instruct me, but I am...very willing.' 

'And the risk?' said Keith seriously. 

'I am willing to take it,' said Ewen, with the same measure of gravity. 

He began to strip off his remaining clothes, but paused. 'Although—do we not need...something to ease the way?'

'We do,' said Keith, taking out a small bottle of oil from his coat pocket and setting it on the bedside table. He also took out a towel and spread it on the bed, for he thought it might be prudent to leave no traces at the inn. 

Ewen gave him a slow smile. 'I see that you come prepared. Now, tell me what I should do.' 

'For now, you need only lie down on your back, and I shall do the rest.' 

And Ewen, with alacrity, drew the shirt over his head and obeyed. With that inspiring view before him, Keith completed his own disrobing, and knelt on the bed, straddling Ewen's naked form. 

'Will you hand me the oil?' he said, and Ewen did so. Keith spread some of it over his fingers and reached behind himself. 

'As you said, we need to ease the way. But more than that—I need to accustom myself gradually to it, for I cannot take something that size—' he looked meaningfully down at Ewen—'without a certain amount of stretching first. Especially as I have not done this for years.' 

Keith spoke in a rather businesslike way, to somehow disguise the way in which his heart was pounding. Ewen nodded, then said, 'May I see? If you turn round…' 

Keith did so, then resumed his preparations. He soon had two of his own fingers deep inside himself, and felt rather exposed at knowing Ewen's gaze to be on him as he did it—a rather different intimacy from meeting his eyes. 

Keith had spoken the truth when telling Ewen that he had not done this with another man for years. He did not say that only last night, he had lain in his own bed at Stowe House, with his own fingers similarly inside himself, and despite the awkwardness of the position, had brought himself release with his other hand, imagining this very situation. 

'May I put my finger in you?' asked Ewen rather hoarsely behind him. 

'Yes, surely,' replied Keith. He drew out his fingers and handed him the bottle. 

He heard Ewen screwing the lid off, then silence as he presumably coated his finger with the oil. Then Keith felt the tip of Ewen's finger entering him, somehow a rather different experience from having his own there. As Ewen slid it further in, and Keith felt the knuckles pass inside him, he could not help moving backwards to meet him, making a breathless noise. 

'Does that feel good?' asked Ewen behind him. 

Keith snorted. 'Obviously so. Now, if you take your finger out—I think I am ready.' 

Ewen did so, and Keith turned to face him, opening the bottle yet again. 'We will use some more of this on you—the more, the better, though it can get rather messy. But I promise you 'tis worth it.' 

He gave Ewen a couple of slow strokes with the oil, until Ewen said, with a groan, 'That's quite enough—you may need preparation for this, but I assure you that I am quite ready.' 

'I can feel that,' said Keith, teasing, as he gave him one last firm stroke. 'Very well, then. If you'll keep still—I think I shall need to take this slowly.' 

'I will,' promised Ewen. 

Some time later, Ewen was fully seated inside him, and Keith's breath was coming short, as he gradually adjusted to the stretch of it. Ewen was as good as his word, but Keith could feel the tension in him, like a tightly bridled horse. 

'Keith, you are not—not hard anymore,' said Ewen in concern. 'I hope it is not painful for you?' 

'Not painful, no. There is some slight discomfort, but it will pass, and as I get used to it, I assure you 'twill be the furthest thing from painful.' Keith leaned forward to kiss him, and Ewen raised his head up to meet him. 

Keith tightened round him, and released, and Ewen, with a gasp, twitched inside him. With the small change in their position, everything was suddenly more than right. 

'You see?' said Keith, for he was now growing hard again. 

Ewen nodded, his eyes wide. He brought his hands up along Keith's thighs, to cup his behind. Keith lifted up a little, and as he sat down again, the jolt of pleasure surprised a sound from him, and he heard Ewen utter a similar cry. 

'Do you like it?' asked Keith, smiling. 

'Do I _like_ it?' echoed Ewen, as if Keith had asked whether he thought the sun would be rising tomorrow. 'Oh, Keith, I— _oh—_ ' For Keith had moved again. 

Though his chest was heaving, Ewen was still keeping his promise not to move his hips. Keith supplied the movement, to both their considerable pleasure, and the thought of that leashed strength which he straddled made him shiver. 

Oh, how long it had been since he had last done this, and the joy of doing it with Ewen—Keith did not touch himself, for he wished to draw it out as long as he might. But though he might be capable of that, Ewen was not. 

'Keith, I—I think I will not last,' said Ewen unsteadily. He had now begun to meet Keith's downward thrusts with movement of his own, and as he could no longer bridle his urgent desire, Keith gave him the rhythm he needed, until he reached out to grip Keith's hips in his hands, and thrust up into him helplessly. 

Keith might have come then, too, if he had taken himself in hand in time, but instead, he watched Ewen fall apart beneath him, and felt his release inside himself, too. He was utterly beautiful. 

As Ewen lay trying to catch his breath afterwards, he looked rather mortified. 'Ah, Keith, I am sorry! It seems I have no more control than a boy of sixteen. How may I give you satisfaction, instead?' 

And Keith could not help himself—he broke down laughing. 

'Keith, please do not mock me!' Ewen looked quite miserable. 

'No—no, I'm not laughing at that!' said Keith, trying indeed to stop. 

'At what, then?' said Ewen, sounding a little cross now. 

'You offered me satisfaction,' said Keith, 'as though I might challenge you to a duel over it.' 

Ewen looked taken aback, but then began to laugh himself. 'Indeed I hope you will not—and 'twould be rather difficult to explain the matter to our seconds, if you did.' 

'Besides, you have already apologised. For which there is truly no need! Ah, Ewen, if you could see yourself—to look at you as you find your pleasure is a reward in itself.' 

'But you have not yet found yours,' said Ewen stubbornly, 'and that is surely my duty to accomplish—I am sorry I could not last.' His cheeks were still flushed with shame. 

Keith leaned down to kiss him. 'You have hands, and a mouth—I assure you they'll be quite enough.' 

Ewen's arms came about him, and as they kissed more thoroughly, Keith felt the resurgence of his own desire. 

Their movements had parted them, and Keith reached for the end of the towel, to wipe himself off. 'I told you we would make a mess—but was it not worth it?' 

'Oh, it surely was,' replied Ewen with emphasis, and made use of the towel himself. 'But now I think it's your turn to lie on your back, and my turn to do the work.' 

'Gladly,' said Keith, and they exchanged places. Ewen sat back and re-plaited his hair in a businesslike fashion, to keep it out of the way. 

Then he asked, 'May I put my fingers in you again?'

Something about his deep, intent voice asking such a question of him made Keith shiver. He spread his legs in wordless assent. Ewen, having taken to heart Keith's words about the more, the better, put more oil on his fingers, though Keith thought it would scarcely be necessary now. 

And indeed two of his fingers slid in with almost less resistance than one of them had previously. Keith groaned at the sensation. 'One more?' he said, and Ewen complied. 

'If you curl your fingers a little,' said Keith, and as Ewen carefully did so, stroking him deep inside, Keith lost track of how he had intended to complete that sentence, and could only make little whimpering noises. 

And then Ewen lowered his head and took him in his mouth, and Keith found himself in a realm of bliss that indeed could not last very long. 

He opened his eyes again afterwards, to see Ewen swallowing and looking very satisfied that his nose had taken no part in the proceeding. 

Keith cleared his throat and managed to speak. 'You see? I hardly consider this a consolation prize.' 

Ewen's fingers were still inside him, and he very carefully extracted them. Keith caught his breath as he did so. 

'Let me help you clean up,' said Ewen, and fetched a bottle of water, from which he took a drink and then wet the towel. When they had used it, it lay discarded on the floor, and they curled up together in the bed. Its narrowness did not matter, for in any case they wished to lie close. 

'Keith, my dearest love,' whispered Ewen in his ear. 'I'm glad we did this.' 

As always, Ewen's use of endearments reached some place inside of him which soaked them up like rain on dry earth, even as he himself did not find it as easy to utter them. But he sought Ewen's mouth in reply, and then they were kissing again. Keith felt the faint taste of himself in Ewen's mouth. 

Somewhat later, Ewen asked, 'Keith, have you...done that with many men? Please believe me, I'm not jealous of what lies in your past, but I do confess to some curiosity. But if you don't wish to speak of it, I won't insist.' 

Keith roused himself from his drowsy state, and moved back a little, so that he could meet Ewen's eyes. 'No, I don't mind speaking of it. I've only done this with one man—or boy, perhaps I should say, for we were not much more than that. We were schoolmates, and once we discovered our mutual inclination, there was not much that we didn't try together, as often as we could.' 

'Oh,' said Ewen. 'I must admit to some envy, if not jealousy, then, for I never had the boy I admired, as a youth. I was quite besotted with one of my distant Cameron cousins, but of course I never said anything. But he is married now, with three children—'twas a long time ago.' 

'Poor Ewen, languishing away,' said Keith, teasing. 

'Oh, I was! But at least it did me some good, for I practised swordplay as much as I could, to impress him. In vain, I must say.' Ewen shook his head. 

Keith began to laugh. 'Not in vain, for your prowess with a sword has certainly impressed me! In a literal sense, I mean—that was not a euphemism,' he added as an afterthought, the remains of his laughter lurking at the corner of his mouth. 

At that, Ewen was also startled into laughter. 'I think my prowess with the euphemistic sort of sword was not very impressive tonight.' 

'I've no complaints to make,' protested Keith fondly. 

'I'm glad, then,' said Ewen. 'How long were you with this schoolmate of yours, then?' 

'Only half a year, until we finished school. And we had rather a scare at the end, when we were almost discovered—I became much more cautious after that, for I saw that it could well have ruined my life. I kept away from men in that sense for a while, and when I took it up again, I resolved to keep such things much more separate from the rest of my acquaintance. Since then, I have never been with any man in my own social circle. Until you, that is.' 

'But—how did you meet men, then?' asked Ewen. 

'I sucked off strangers in parks,' said Keith bluntly. 

'What?' said Ewen, rather shocked. 

'Yes. I told you once that I used to be quite cynical, and in this sense I was. I had been played false in love—by a woman, and that's another story—but as a consequence of it, I did not believe in love anymore. I didn't want to use anyone myself, and so...it seemed to me a way to in some way satisfy those physical longings which I yet had. I was not hurt by it, and neither were they.' 

There was a compassion in Ewen's eyes which Keith almost found difficult to bear. 'But Keith, I think you were hurt by it. Not by the acts in themselves, but by the betrayal, and your own consequent loss of trust.' 

Keith shrugged. 'Perhaps. But that's in the past, now—for I have regained that trust.' 

Ewen was silent for a while. 'I think I understand you somewhat better, now—there are things I have wondered at, which now seem more clear. I remember our meeting in Luton, when I had told you of my own feelings, and was waiting for you to come to me. I wasn't sure that you would do it—and perhaps I didn't understand what I was asking of you, to trust me in that way.' 

'I admit I fought against my feelings for you, for a long time,' said Keith. 'But by that time, all that was left for me was to fully admit to them.' 

'Keith, you are even more dear to me, if that is possible, when I know that your trust has been betrayed in the past, and yet you chose to trust me, despite that.' The candle on the bedside table threw soft flickering shadows over Ewen's face, but his serious gaze, as he held Keith's, was steady. 

Keith buried his face against Ewen's neck, thinking that words would come more easily that way. But no, that was the coward's way—why was it still so difficult to speak what was in his heart? He had already told Ewen once that he loved him; but it was something he should learn to express more freely. 

So Keith raised his head. 'Ewen. I love you and I trust you.' He said it steadily, and if his voice was a little hoarse, it was heartfelt. 

Ewen met his gaze. 'Oh, Keith, my heart. You shall never regret it, if I can help it. ' 

And Keith laid his head down again next to Ewen's. Rain lashed the window of the little room, and the winter cold crept in through the walls, but they made their own warmth under the blanket. 

After a moment, he said, 'And what of yourself? You told me of your Cameron cousin, but who was the man—or men, perhaps—that you have been with? For I think you said once that this was not the first time you had been with a man.' 

'That was in Paris,' said Ewen's deep voice. 'Paris is...well, it is Paris.' 

'Yes, I know you studied there—you must have been rather...courted.' Keith could quite imagine it. 

But Ewen said, with his customary modesty, 'Oh, I don't know that. But there was a man who approached me, and we were lovers for a time. Quite a short time—I was not in love with him, and he not with me, I think. But I was flattered by his interest, and also curious about what being with a man was like.' 

'And how did you find it?' 

'In a physical sense I suppose 'twas satisfying, but love—love makes such a difference that it is like night and day.' 

Keith could not but agree. 

Ewen frowned a little, returning to the previous point. 'But I cannot quite believe this about parks in London. Do you mean that one needs only to stand in a park at night to be approached like that?' 

Keith laughed. 'One needs to know certain places, and signs, and ways of behaving. But you, I believe, would have fifty men lining up for the privilege, should you go there.' 

Ewen snorted. 'Keith, you seem to have the impression that the whole world wants to bed me—I assure you 'tis not the case. Perhaps you ought to take some thought to your own partiality, for I believe it is affecting your judgement.' 

Keith raised an eyebrow. 'Perhaps. I shall admit to my partiality, then, since I do not wish you to become insufferably vain. But you must allow me to tell you that regardless of what the world might think, I find you beautiful quite beyond all reason.' He stroked his hand up Ewen's shoulder and neck, to cup his head, and tangle his fingers in his hair.

'And you think you are not?' replied Ewen quietly. 

At that, Keith was taken aback. 'Certainly there is nothing wrong with my appearance, but no one would call me beautiful—save, apparently, you, but we have already established the influence of partiality.' Of a certainty, he was nothing to compare with his mother, or with Francis. 

'Let me enlighten you, then,' said Ewen, quite seriously. 'Keith, you have the most lovely eyes. For the longest time I wondered whether they were green, or perhaps light brown, but they partake of both colours, I think. Further, the infinite variety of your smiles—I think I could make a lifetime's study of them. And I remember when I finally got you out of your uniform, that time in London...it was quite worth it.' 

Keith by now was rather red in the face, for he was not accustomed to hearing such praise. 'Ewen, that is quite enough,' he muttered. 

Ewen surveyed the results of his speech with satisfaction. 'On the contrary—I think you need to hear compliments more often. But I shall save the rest of them up for another time, then.' 

The candle on the bedside table was guttering, and Keith leaned over to light a new one from the flame before it went out, and settle it in the candlestick in the melted wax of the old one. 

'What time is it?' asked Ewen. 

Keith took out his watch and showed him. 

Ewen sighed. 'I think perhaps we should not stay the night, much as I want to, for Alan is bound to wonder at it—as it was, he teased me about having a sweetheart the last time I was away for a night, and I, terrible liar that I am, could not manage to deny it very believably.' 

'Alan is your cousin with whom you share a room, yes?' 

'Yes, Alan Stewart of Invernacree, a first cousin on my mother's side. Oh, and we are having supper tomorrow with some of the Camerons—would you like to come?' 

'Yes—if you think they would have me?' Keith felt somewhat unsure of it. 

'They will, for you are my friend,' said Ewen firmly. 'Now, let me hold you in my arms for a little more, before we leave.' 

And they lay close together again, for short while. Ewen whispered in his ear, 'What we did tonight—I think I would like to try it the other way round, as well. Will you do that?' 

'Oh, _yes_ ,' said Keith. 'Gladly.' 

'I can feel that,' Ewen teased, for Keith could not help reacting to the suggestion. 'But we shall have to wait for another time.' 

Keith groaned. 'Then let us part now, before I become too frustrated.' 

Ewen slid his hand down between them. 'Or I could…?' 

Keith firmly removed his hand while he still had the willpower. 'No, you were right the first time—we should not stay too long.' He sighed, then regretfully disentangled himself and stood. 

'Well, one of us has some discipline, at least,' said Ewen, standing likewise and beginning to clothe himself. 'Keith, do you know where your regiment will be posted?' he asked. For though they now served the same King, there was no guarantee that they would serve him side by side. 

'We are to stay in London, for now—more than that, I don't know,' said Keith quietly, buttoning up his waistcoat. 'And you?' 

'I will also stay in London, for now. But Keith, I'm not made for court life!' 

'No, I don't think you are,' said Keith, with a sideways smile at him. 'You are made for the Highlands, I know it.' 

'Yes, but—' and Ewen gave him a look that said that his heart would be rather sore, if he had to choose between Ardroy and Keith. 

'Ewen, let us cross that bridge when we come to it,' said Keith softly, reaching out to him. 'We don't know what may happen—perhaps I may be posted in Scotland. We can hope for that, at least, and we will have some months still in London. Let us make the most of them.' 

Ewen nodded, giving him one last kiss. And thus they parted. 

The following morning, Keith's new commission arrived, along with a note from St Clair directing him to report for duty at his earliest convenience. The paper of the commission was crisp and the corners sharp. _James the Third, by the Grace of God King..._

Well, it was done. Keith folded the paper once more, and tucked it into the breast pocket of his uniform coat, which had been washed and pressed, and the buttons polished. 

He spoke with St Clair, and then went to take charge of his company again, beginning by writing a letter to Lieutenant Calvert, expressing the hope that he would recover and take his former place again. Then he went to find Lamb. 

'Sir,' said his sergeant, giving him a respectful nod. 

'Sergeant, I'm glad to see you,' said Keith. 'No mementoes of the last battle?' 

'None, but it's been a confusing few weeks—I never saw the like of it.' He made a small grimace. 

'Yes.' Indeed it was strange, how all round them things were the same: the red uniforms, the shouted commands, the churned-up mud of the parade grounds. And yet the King they now served had been, only a few weeks ago, an enemy to be desperately fought against. 

Keith had been silent too long, for Lamb looked at him enquiringly. 'We have not seen such confusion since 1688, I suppose,' he said, with a wry smile of his own. 

'Perhaps,' said Lamb. 'But it's not for the likes of me to do aught but follow orders, as well as I can.' 

An officer could resign his commission, if he wished, but a private soldier, at least if he had not served the term he signed up for, hardly had a choice. 

'Well, we must make the best of it,' said Keith. It was a platitude, but what could he say? 

'So we must, sir.' 

'But tell me,' said Keith, diving into practicalities with relief, 'how the company fared in the battle, and after.' 

Lamb gave him an account of some dead and some wounded, and almost the whole company captured. Keith felt the urge to justify his own absence, but no, that was in the past, and he need not explain himself to his own sergeant! 

'Yes, I saw the current muster roll,' he said instead. 'A pity Corporal Smith was killed! I trust the men were well treated?' 

'Yes, sir, and the wounds well taken care of.' 

Keith nodded in satisfaction. 'I was a prisoner too, earlier in the war, and was well treated myself. And how is the mood among the men?' 

'Well, I won't hide from you that some of them are mighty pleased—and some of them are not. Though of course there's a fair amount that don't care either way, so long as they get their pay and their ale.' 

Keith did not ask Lamb's own opinion. 'Mmm. Well, I shall go the rounds, and we must establish some routine again—drill in the mornings, I think. There's still the new recruits that I suppose don't know their right from their left.' 

'Yes, sir,' said Lamb. And Keith went to review his men. 

He found himself, later that day, standing in front of an eating-house in one of the better parts of London, wondering whether Ewen's invitation had, after all, been a bad idea. He might carry King James' commission now, but only a few weeks ago, he had been carrying a very different one, and he did not know what attitude the officers of the original Jacobite army might take towards one such as himself, who had only taken service with King James after circumstances had made it a prudent choice. Keith rather winced at this characterisation of his actions, but he could not deny that there was some truth to it. 

Upon being shown into the room, he saw that he was the only red-coated officer there—the others all wore some garment or other with the Cameron tartan, or another one that perhaps might be the Stewart. 

But he need not stand long by the door—Ewen, with his advantage of height, soon saw him, and made his way towards him. 

'Keith!' he said, smiling, and invited him towards the group where he was standing. 

'Be welcome, Captain Windham,' said Donald Cameron of Lochiel courteously. 

'I thank you, sir,' said Keith with a bow. 'I was only a parole prisoner when you met me last; I should not have wondered had you not remembered me.' 

Lochiel had, in a sense, partially been the cause of Keith's imprisonment in Luton, but he could not blame him for that, for the suggestion that Keith might change his allegiance had been made in private, to Ewen—and moreover, he now had changed that allegiance. Nevertheless, Keith felt slightly awkward in the knowledge of it. 

But Lochiel's next words banished that memory. 'I could surely not forget a man who has saved my cousin's life. Ardroy told me of your actions in London; you must allow me to thank you for them now.' 

'And let me add my gratitude to my brother's,' said Dr Archibald Cameron. Keith could see Ewen's barely concealed gratification at his kinsmen's recognition of him. 

'Any honourable man would surely have done the same,' said Keith, though if he were to be honest, he doubted that any disinterested man would have shown the same zeal, even if he be ever so honourable. 'At any rate, your cousin has become a dear friend of mine.' 

Best to tell them at least a partial truth, for none, looking at Ewen, could doubt that Keith was his dear friend. 

'I am glad to hear that,' said Dr Cameron, smiling. 'Are you back with your old regiment, then?' 

'I am, yes, and found that my company had been well treated during their captivity after the battle of Huntingdon.' It was only the truth. 

But here their conversation was interrupted, when another of the Camerons was shown in, and announced that it was settled—he had heard it from the Prince himself, and the present Parliament had agreed: there would be elections for the Scottish Parliament! 

The news quite naturally caused a stir, and expressions of joy and triumph, not least on Ewen's face. But Dr Cameron remarked quietly to his brother. 'This is indeed good news, but it's still only the beginning. For the bare fact of a Parliament is not enough—Ireland has one, and what does it avail her?' 

And Lochiel nodded. 'The devil is in the details—we must set our best legal minds on it.' 

After the first stir at the news had settled down, they were seated, and Keith found himself with Ewen on one side, and a tall, dark-haired young man opposite to him, with an air of good humour. A waiter filled their glasses with fine claret, and began serving up the soup course. 

'Keith, this is my cousin, Captain Alan Stewart of Invernacree,' said Ewen, and then, turning to Alan, said, 'And Alan, this is my friend Captain Keith Windham, of the Royal Scots.' 

'I am pleased to meet you, Captain Windham. Ewen has told me much about you,' said Alan Stewart, with a smile. 'Is it true that you escaped from him through a window on the second storey, when you were his prisoner?' 

Keith laughed. 'Ewen, what have you been telling him? Yes, I suppose 'tis true—but you make it sound as though he were pursuing me at the time, which was not the case.' 

'No, he did it in the dark of night,' said Ewen. 'But he had withdrawn his parole beforehand, so 'twas all quite aboveboard.' 

'If Ewen has been telling you stories about me, perhaps you may supply me with some stories about him, then, Captain Stewart,' said Keith mischievously, with a glance at Ewen. 'If you knew each other as youths, I am sure you could tell me any number of adventurous episodes.' 

Ewen groaned. 'He is spoilt for choice, I'm afraid—the only question is how embarrassing the story will be.' 

'Hmm, let me see,' said Alan Stewart. 'Well, there was the time when I dared him to swim Loch Leven at Ballachulish. He tried it, too, but he had to be rescued by the ferry.' 

'It was late November!' protested Ewen. 'I have never been so cold, I think.' 

'Oh, and how about the time when you decided you had practised enough with a singlestick, and tried to get an old claymore down from the wall at Invernacree? Do you still have the scar?' 

'I must have been, what, seven?' Ewen unbuttoned his shirt at the left wrist, and showed them a thin, faded white line on his arm, scarcely visible. 

Keith listened to these reminiscences with a fond smile. 'Ewen—speaking of swords, did you not promise me at Edinburgh that you would let me try your Highland broadsword?' 

'I did, that's true—if we can all get off duty at the same time, we should do some sparring. You have bested me in both our encounters, so I feel the need for a rematch.' 

This seemed to impress Alan Stewart rather a lot, so Keith said quickly, 'No, no, you give me entirely too much credit. In the first instance, I was wearing a kilt, and doing a rather bad job of it, too—'

'Yes, I have heard of the incident with the kilt,' said Alan Stewart, clearly trying to smother a smile. 

'And in the second, Ewen had only a court sword, and besides, he lost it when my sergeant decided to intervene with the butt of his musket.'

''Tis a poor swordsman who blames circumstances,' said Ewen punctiliously. 'I still award you the win.' 

'Since you insist, then,' said Keith, 'let us have a rematch.' 

'Yes, but you must get used to a Highland sword first—or use your own, if you prefer.' 

'You should ask Ardsheal to join you,' said Alan. 'I'm a passable swordsman, I suppose, and Ewen is an excellent one—but Ardsheal is a master.' 

'Very true, he is,' said Ewen. ''Tis said that he bloodied Rob Roy himself, in his youth.' 

Alan lowered his voice. 'Though I've heard that his wife, Isobel Haldane, said that she would lead the Appin Stewarts out for Prince Charles if he would not, when he hesitated. She took off her apron and…' 

'Shame on you, Alan, speaking ill of a man when he is not here!' said Ewen. 

'I was but speaking well of his wife,' replied Alan innocently. 'But Ardsheal has led us well, 'tis true.' 

Here they were interrupted by Lochiel, who stood and raised his glass to King James, and all round the table stood likewise. Keith turned to meet Ewen's gaze. He was minded of a different toast, to a different king, on board the HMS _Calypso_ from Leith to London, when Ewen had refused to drink to the King at the captain's table, and Keith had defended his right to do so. 

But Keith could not refuse, for next to his heart sat King James' commission. 

He thought suddenly of the prophecy, of how Ewen was fated both to do him a great service, and to cause him bitter grief. Well, the import of that was only too clear to Keith now: the service he had done him was precious to him beyond any price he could name, for he had given Keith his heart, and in doing so, had woken Keith's own heart from its barren solitude. 

But if not for Ewen, Keith might not have seen so clearly how his King had failed him, and might not, in his disillusionment, have been brought to abandon King George and give his allegiance to a new King. That was indeed a bitter grief to him—but in truth he could not blame Ewen for it. 

His pledge was given now, and must be honoured. Keith looked in Ewen's eyes, and raised the glass to his lips and drank to King James. In the taste of the wine was mingled bitterness and joy.

**Author's Note:**

> In fact King George did actively order those officers to break their parole. As I said in the notes for Part II, General Hawley was the one who first went through with the scheme. When Cumberland arrived, he endorsed it, and when some officers still would not go back to their duty, he asked the King to reinforce that order by letter, and he did. So I am not slandering King George. : )
> 
> Keith goes to the still existing [Stowe House](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Stowe_House) near Buckingham. 
> 
> Perhaps I've passed over the problem of James being Catholic too lightly, and I should've had him abdicate in favour of Charles. But once I'd realised that, there were a lot of scenes which relied on Charles still being a prince, and to be frank I'd run out of energy for editing. So I ended up with a compromise where James promises to abdicate as soon as Charles produces a suitable Protestant heir. 
> 
> Everything about James St Clair's personal history is historical, except for his feelings and motives, and the bits about Lady Ogilvy and Isobel Haldane are also true. 
> 
> _Bana-mhaighstir Mairead_ = mistress Margaret (yes, I know that titles like "bana-mhaighstir" are not used today…)

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic] A Great Service and a Bitter Grief](https://archiveofourown.org/works/28074246) by [Luzula (Luzula_podfic)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Luzula_podfic/pseuds/Luzula)




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